


Follow You, Follow Me

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Series: Follow You, Follow Me [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anonymity, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I suppose I can finally add this tag too, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insults, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Bahorel/Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Minor Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Eponine Thenardier, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier/Marius Pontmercy, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Mistaken Identity, Multi, Obsessive Behaviour, Queerplatonic Relationships, Rating May Change, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Build, Tumblr, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 103,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In this strange conglomeration of humanity which made up the users of tumblr, Grantaire felt like he'd stumbled into a land peopled entirely by others who were just -- like -- him. He was so used to being the lone devil's advocate in a group of angels, the lone voice of reason in a group of idealists, the lone voice of dissent in a group of yes-men, that to have found an entire population of people who were just as eager to shoot down the mainstream as he was -- it was glorious to feel so... not alone.  And it went to his head.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Follow You, Follow Me  
>  **Fandom:** Les Miserables (mostly based on musical/movie-verse, but I've been reading my way through parts of the Brick and that may occasionally influence something).  
>  **Pairing:** Will eventually be Enjolras/Grantaire for sure... other pairings are still a bit up in the air.  
>  **Rating:** PG-13 for now, rating may (and most likely will) go up  
>  **Warnings:** Slash, obsessive behavior, talk of addictive behavior (both to alcohol and certain social media sites ^_~)
> 
>  ** _May 21, 2013:_** Several weeks ago, I reblogged a post by supersherlockian on tumblr. Shortly thereafter, it lodged itself in my brain and refused to be dislodged until I began to write fic for it. [Here](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/49781588015/supersherlockian-reading-about-grantaire-in-the) is the original tumblr post: "Reading about Grantaire in the Brick, thinking how that guy’s tumblr would’ve been the bestest ever!" Because it would have been. And just imagine what kind of mischief he'd have gotten up to once he discovered Enjolras' social justice tumblr? What mischief, indeed...? ^_~
> 
> In other words, Jehan talks Grantaire into getting a tumblr and in so doing... creates a monster.
> 
> (This was intended to be a short, sweet bit of fluff. It isn't, anymore. -.-;;;)
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/51014033973/follow-you-follow-me-4336-words-by-renee-chan).

E-mail.

Password.

Username.

That seemed simple enough. What he was supposed to do with the bloody thing once he'd filled in those little blue boxes, he had no idea, but Jehan had seemed convinced that he would enjoy it. And Grantaire was enamored of nothing more than those things he might enjoy. Though he wore a cynic's clothing, at heart he was a hedonist. He couldn't resist at least looking into it. Jean Prouvaire knew him that well, for certain.

Filling in an e-mail (a dummy account he'd set up for just such tentative pursuits) and a password had proven easy enough. What was currently giving him pause was this conundrum of choosing a username. His first thought was to name himself after what he would use the site for -- but as he knew not what that was to be, that proved futile rather quickly. He thought of simply using his name, but dismissed that idea even more quickly than the first. This medium seemed to demand a sort of anonymity and until he was more familiar with it, he didn't want his name attached in any way. So, that left him with the prospect of coming up with a clever nickname... and that was proving elusive.

Frustrated with his inability to command a burst of wit at an opportune time when such cleverness had no trouble overtaking him at the most inopportune of times, Grantaire pushed his laptop away and stood up from the couch. Perhaps a little something to lubricate the thinking process... Grantaire made his way into the kitchen and over to the wine rack, pulled out a Cotes-du-Rhône, then a glass. As he took his first sip, he toyed with the idea of naming the thing after one of his favorite wines, but discarded that idea, as well. It was too obvious, lacked a certain amount of finesse. It simply wasn't good enough.

Grantaire made his way back to the couch and deposited the bottle on the end table, keeping the glass closer to hand. He glanced around the room, hoping for inspiration somewhere among his bookshelves, his racks of music or DVDs, that one poor, neglected fern that Jehan had given him as an apartment-warming present once upon a time. No inspiration there. But, maybe... That might work.

Jehan was a student of language -- of all languages, really... or at least as many languages as he could master. He'd studied most of the classics -- the better to read the classics of literature, he'd said -- and many that Grantaire had never even heard of nor knew existed as languages. That was what had initially drawn Jehan to this site that he was attempting to drag Grantaire into using. It was a new social media platform and it seemed to have spawned its own form of language. Jehan was fascinated, wanted to know more, and had immersed himself in the culture of the website to better study it. Grantaire had poked fun at him at the time -- who'd ever heard of a website having its own culture or language, for goodness' sake? -- but he'd somehow turned the damned pet project into a burgeoning doctoral dissertation. He was happy as a clam about it, but Grantaire just had to shake his head when his friend got started on discussing it.

The _point_ , however, was that Jehan was gifted with languages. They'd been drunk one night -- this was not unusual, as they often were -- and Jehan had been tossing Grantaire's name around on his tongue like a street con artist tossing a coin about on his fingers.

"Grantaire."

"Gran. Tear."

"Grant. Err."

"Grant. Air."

"Grand. Air."

"Huh. Grand Air. Grand 'R'? Grantaire, has anyone ever told you that your name sounds like 'Big R' in French?"

"No, Jehan. I can't say anyone ever has. Then again, most people who have had occasion to comment on my name haven't had their heads immersed in medieval French poetry for the last month when they did so, either."

Jehan had conceded that that was probably true and that he was very drunk and that had been the end of the matter -- except that the nickname had stuck. From that point on, Jehan persisted in calling him 'R' and taking great delight in how it confused their other friends. And if none but he ever laughed when he explained the joke... well, what was the harm?

So. 'R'. That was certainly cryptic enough to throw off any who knew him other than Jehan... but when Grantaire attempted to enter it, it turned out that he was not the first to consider its use. So 'R' was out. 'GrandR' was a bit too close to his own name for comfort and 'bigR' sounded as though it were more suited to being a truck driver's handle than his own. So, something that began with 'R,' perhaps...

And there it was -- the moment of wit Grantaire had been looking for. Rebus -- a word beginning with 'R' and meaning a symbol used to represent a name. It was simple. It was not cunning except in the way that naming a cat 'neko' was cunning, but its very ubiquitousness and unremarkability would camouflage who it belonged to better than any other disguise Grantaire could have devised. And the irony of using a word to represent that concept as a symbol for himself in social media was Grantaire all over.

With a small flourish, Grantaire typed it in, cracked his knuckles... and began to explore.

* * *

"But haven't you been on yet, this afternoon?"

"Jehan, be serious. Do you have any idea how many pictures of cats you've reblogged today? You can't honestly expect me to 'like' them all even if I _was_ on."

"Oh..."

Grantaire shook his head at the disappointed tone in his friend's voice and offered, "I must say I really do appreciate all the 'grumpy cat' you've been reblogging lately, though."

Jehan leaned over the back of the couch to watch as Grantaire finished decanting the wine, "I know, right! When I first saw him, all I could think was -- R's spirit animal! I just... seriously, I couldn't even!"

Grantaire turned back to face the living room and raised an eyebrow, "You couldn't even what, Jehan?"

They blinked at each other for a minute before Jehan sank back down into the couch and hid his face in the back cushions. Grantaire laughed as he brought the wine and glasses over, patted Jehan on the head once he'd put the decanter down, "Practicing that tumblr language, again, Jehan?"

Jehan scowled, but accepted his glass readily enough. "It's _addicting_ , R. You have no idea how easily it creeps into your speech. I caught myself using it with my dissertation advisor the other day." Grantaire winced in sympathy. Jehan swallowed down a huge gulp of wine and said, "At least I was able to pass it off as a sample of my research." He lifted a finger and poked Grantaire in the shoulder as he settled down beside him, "Be careful of that when you start posting things of your own. It sneaks up on you."

"I'll take that under advisement."

Another grumpy sound, "See that you do."

* * *

After a month had gone by, Grantaire was starting to get a better idea of what Jehan had been talking about when referring to tumblr's unique language. It had clearly started in the tagging phenomenon, branching out from the restrictions of no commas and the stream of consciousness writing that seemed to encourage. It was strange at first, but he couldn't deny it... there was something in that freedom of language which appealed to Grantaire. He picked it up remarkably quickly, taking advantage of it to sneak clever and biting commentary into posts that were otherwise fairly inane. For some reason, however, other tumblr users seemed to have a certain appreciation for clever and biting commentary. As he started to pick up followers, he also noticed that posts he added his own version of wit to seemed to pick up in popularity. It was an interesting phenomenon.

The most interesting piece, though, was that in this strange conglomeration of humanity which made up the users of tumblr, Grantaire felt like he'd stumbled into a land peopled entirely by others who were just -- like -- him. He was so used to being the lone devil's advocate in a group of angels, the lone voice of reason in a group of idealists, the lone voice of dissent in a group of yes-men, that to have found an entire population of people who were just as eager to shoot down the mainstream as he was -- it was glorious to feel so... not alone. And it went to his head.

In the beginning, Grantaire kept himself strictly to liking Jehan's pictures of cats and occasionally reblogging one of his poems or commentaries on whatever he was reading. Jehan was a good writer and insightful when he wished to be and Grantaire enjoyed giving him that little bit of a boost in popularity. By the time he'd been on the site for a month, though, such activities no longer felt like enough. He started to crave that validation that he only got when people like himself reblogged his additions to posts. He stalked the tags of his each and every reblog, mentally ticked off a checkmark for every "bless this post" and "accurate post is accurate" and "THIS" he racked up. And the quicker he was with a burn, the faster he built up those counts.

He was in the midst of brutally dissecting someone's meta on the latest episode of some new show on the History Channel that he didn't even watch but had seen enough posts about to have enough of a gist for this, when a pair of bodies dropped onto the couch on either side of him and another pair of hands pulled his laptop out from under his fingers. He blinked, hands hovering over the empty space where his computer had once been and twitching over its sudden disappearance. He looked up, straight into Bossuet's earnest face, and asked, "What are you doing?" The question was calm enough, but having his well-meaning yet ill-favored friend in possession of his laptop was cause for no small amount of alarm.

The body on Grantaire's left patted his shoulder and Joly's voice accompanied it by saying, "This is an intervention, my friend. You've been sequestered away in your apartment for the entirety of this weekend. You need a break."

Jehan leaned into Grantaire's shoulder from the right and offered a mild complaint which he'd later insist hadn't been whining no matter how much it sounded like it, "And it's been almost a week since you've been out with us! We miss you." Unspoken but clear from the accusation in Jehan's eyes was that he was sorry he'd ever introduced his friend to tumblr.

Was that really true? Had he really not been out with his friends at all this week? Surely that was an exaggeration. Grantaire pulled his phone from his back pocket and checked the date, eyes widening as he mentally counted backwards. Turning to Jehan, he offered up a sheepish grin, "'I live in my own little world, but it's OK... they know me there?'"

Jehan rolled his eyes and poked Grantaire hard in the shoulder, "That's not even tumblr-speak. That's an old bumper sticker."

Grantaire smiled, leaned into Jehan's shoulder in reciprocation of the earlier gesture, "Tumblr users had to have some outlet before tumblr existed, didn't they?" When Jehan's only answer was to roll his eyes again, Grantaire said, "In all seriousness, though... I mean that. I've never in my life been among a group of such kindred spirits. It's... well, you were right, Jehan. It's addicting."

Bossuet chose that moment to add his two cents, "It's a complete time suck, Grantaire. And your friends miss you. Your favorite bartender misses you even more. And since the thought of an entire community full of Grantaires is enough to make _me_ wish for a drink, how about you leave off with it for tonight and come out with us?"

Joly stood up from the couch and held out his hand, "What do you say, then, Grantaire? Drinks on me?"

'Drinks on me.' Those were three words that most of his friends were extremely careful to never utter around Grantaire... and with good reason. Lips stretching into a slow, predatory smile, Grantaire raised his hand to Joly's and let his friend pull him off the couch. "Well... who in their right mind would refuse an offer like that?"

Jehan laughed as he stood and said, "A man who realizes that no sane man would make an offer like that to you -- you're a bottomless pit!" He wrapped an arm around Grantaire's and began pulling him towards the door, "Still, let's get to the bar before he changes his mind. You've a lot of lost time to make up for and I don't get my next stipend payment until next week."

Grantaire just laughed and let himself be pulled along.

...and resolutely refused to admit, even to himself, that he was already mentally composing a post about the hilarity of this intervention to queue up upon his return.

* * *

"Free booze or no, after the next one, I'm cutting you off, R."

Grantaire waved a hand in Eponine's face and said, "Nonsense. The night is still young and Joly's pockets are deep." 

Eponine rolled her eyes and handed over the drink, "That may be so, but this is your fifth and that's more than enough, already. It's only because I like you that I'm granting you a possible sixth. Don't push me, though, or I'll rescind my good will faster than you can call for another round."

Grantaire took the offered drink and meekly returned to the table his friends had settled at in the corner. It didn't do to irritate one's bartender -- especially when one's bartender was also a friend. If Eponine thought he'd had enough -- and she'd seen Grantaire more thoroughly sloshed than any other friend he had -- then she was most likely right. He'd had enough. 

After reclaiming his seat at the table, Grantaire took a slow sip of his drink. His spirit of choice when out was generally whisky, but as Joly was buying the rounds, the drinks had tended more towards rum and cokes. Rum drinks weren't Grantaire's favorites, but they'd get the job done just as quickly and he certainly wasn't one to argue when someone else was paying for his indulgence. As he sat and sipped, and snickered over Jehan's attempts to get Joly to dance with him, he idly wondered what he'd done to tip Eponine into cutting him off. They had made a deal between them, once, early on in their bartender-barfly relationship. Eponine would trust that Grantaire was a professional about these things and knew where his limits were and she would not insult him by cutting him off before he was ready to stop... and Grantaire would trust that Eponine was also a professional and that if she _did_ choose to cut him off it was with good reason.

So, what was the reason? Before he had a chance to really ponder the question, however, a warm body draped itself across his lap and demanded his attention with a blast of alcohol-laced breath, "R, Jolllly's no fun. He won't dance with me. And Bossuet has three left feet. Dance with me, Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr." 

Grantaire couldn't help but smile at his friend's tendency to roll his nickname when drunk. And Jehan was drunk. He was very drunk. It never seemed to take much for him because he never drank as heavily as the others in their circle of friends. One Malibu Bay Breeze (for which R had teased him mercilessly) and one Piña Colada (for which R had _not_ teased him, because it was just too easy and thus beneath his dignity) and Jehan had been three sheets to the wind and loving everyone. Then again... Jehan always loved everyone. He was just more demonstrative about it when drunk.

Leaving his drink in Joly's possession -- and hoping that Eponine would notice that Bossuet promptly drank it and thus it shouldn't truly count as Grantaire's fifth drink -- Grantaire nudged Jehan off his lap and followed him into the cleared area that sometimes acted as a dance floor. Grantaire wasn't really a very good dancer, but he had a certain grace of movement and when deep enough in his drink, he liked to indulge it. Jehan, on the other hand, normally was a good dancer... and became less and less so as drink stole off with his coordination and sense of balance.

It was a short dance.

It was a very short dance.

It ended with Jehan on the floor, laughing as though at the world's most amazing joke, and Grantaire sprawled across the laps of another party and getting thoroughly glared down upon. He handled the glares with aplomb, as he usually did. He was nothing if not a good-natured drunk, and the glares of those drunks who were far less good natured than he had long since ceased to have any relevance in his life. However, when Jehan finally made it to his feet and held out a hand to help Grantaire to his, an apology ready on his tongue for the men they'd tripped over, those glares transferred their target... and Jehan wilted.

With the grace that only a boneless drunk could command, Grantaire took Jehan's lowering hand and rolled to his feet, turning with the motion to both face the other men and to curl Jehan into the crook of his arm. Jehan clung to him for balance -- and emotional support, if the shining eyes darting relieved glances at him were any indication -- as Grantaire lifted an eyebrow at the glaring party.

The one whose lap Grantaire had just vacated opened his mouth, and if the look in his eyes was any indication, he was about to deliver a truly scathing commentary on their situation. Grantaire didn't give him the chance. He said, "I do beg your pardon, sir. My friend here gives the word 'tipsy' a new meaning every time he's had a drink or two and while my own sense of balance only improves with drink, it was just not up to the task of keeping us both upright. No hard feelings, though, I'm sure?"

Blue eyes narrowed in Grantaire's direction and their owner made a disgusted face before pointedly turning away. One of his companions pushed up his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as though he were in pain. Considering that the Perrier he was indulging in was quite obviously non-alcoholic, Grantaire wondered what the cause of his headache could possibly be. It never crossed Grantaire's mind that it might be himself. The third of their party, on the other hand, rather than turn away in disgust or mime a headache, simply lifted his glass -- alcohol, Grantaire approved -- and offered up a lopsided smile. Grantaire liked him on sight.

At that gesture of goodwill, the irritated blonde with the blue eyes turned rather abruptly back around to glare at Grantaire, again. "Are you still here?"

Grantaire looked down at himself, then back up at the other man, "Well, now, that's a rather interesting question of philosophy. Are any of us truly here? Or are we mere shadows on the wall of the cave, simply pale imitations of what truly is?"

The companion with the drink buried his snorting laugh into said drink, which quickly turned it into an impressive spate of coughing. The companion with the seltzer lifted his hands and with one, patted his coughing friend on the back while the other clamped onto the wrist of the blonde with those impressive blue eyes. In his own bespectacled gaze was a warning, but whether it was to Grantaire or to his increasingly more irate friend, who was to say?

Both ignored the warning.

The blonde rose up out of his seat and Jehan whimpered at Grantaire's side, tugged uselessly at his sleeve to attempt to pull him away. Grantaire was having none of it. Not when those blue eyes were locked so firmly on his own and the heat and weight of that gaze was a more heady rush than even his four and an eighth drinks -- really, Eponine had better not count that one -- had given him. It made Grantaire want to fan that warming blaze into a bonfire and dance around it like a savage. He opened his mouth to do just that when a hand clamped down firmly over his mouth from the other side.

Joly. Of course.

Grantaire barely caught it as his friend apologized on his behalf to the three at the table. The one in the glasses waved the apology away with a genteel smile -- no harm done, but he couldn't help but note that Joly kept some interesting company.

Joly rolled his eyes and admitted that he did, then doled out some quick introductions. Grantaire ignored them, gaze still locked with the blonde's over Joly's restraining hands. It wasn't until Joly and Jehan, with Bossuet's help, forcibly dragged him back to their table that he was able to move his eyes away. Grantaire was familiar enough with lust at first sight to recognize it when he felt it and familiar enough with reading people to know that the current object of his lust was a lost cause... at least, for now.

When they reached their corner table, Eponine was there already, thumping a glass of bourbon on its surface. Before Grantaire could even open his mouth, Eponine held up a finger and shushed him, "That's twice you tangled with Enjolras tonight and it's clear you already don't remember the first. So, this is all you're getting and no amount of whining or begging on your part is going to change my mind. That man and his friends are nothing but trouble and you're drawn to trouble like a bear to honey and with just as much grace as one." Grantaire then attempted to speak, but Eponine planted a hand firmly over his mouth, her gaze even harder than her hold, "Not in my bar, R." She then pinned the other three at the table with her sharp gaze, "When he's finished that, you take him home. I'm in no mood for this nonsense tonight. Bring him back when he's a sensible drunk, again."

There was nothing for it, then. Grantaire held up his hands in surrender. Satisfied, Eponine made her way back to the bar. Joly rolled his eyes, "Christ, Grantaire, even drunk, I thought you had more sense than this. I should have known better."

Turning a confused gaze on Joly, Grantaire asked, "What's the big deal, anyway? So, the man has a chip on his shoulder the size of the old USSR. The other two seem harmless enough and if I stayed away from everyone on this Earth irritated by the sight of me, I really wouldn't ever leave my apartment."

Jehan dropped his head onto Grantaire's shoulder and sighed, "Yeah, but these guys are hardcore. I've seen them around campus -- real social justice warriors. They don't stop with words and protests. They have a reputation for violence and law-breaking when they can't accomplish their goals any other way."

Grantaire leaned over to lean his head on Jehan's, "They wouldn't be the ones who broke into the medical lab and liberated all the animals last month, would they? A little junior high of them, don't you think?"

Joly shook his head and said, "No, that was the university PETA branch. Idiots. As if it's somehow less cruel to release defenseless, captive animals into the 'wilds' of downtown Philadelphia. Poor things probably got run over by cars long before they ever made it to rat paradise. And they probably transmitted plague to half the city on the way."

Jehan moaned and buried his face in Grantaire's shoulder at the thought. Grantaire lifted an arm to wrap it gently around him. After a moment, Jehan lifted his head again and said, "They do plenty else, though. They invade half my club meetings with their ridiculous rhetoric in the guise of poetry. It's always something with them. They've been getting more organized lately, restricting their activities to peaceful actions like rallies and blogging and the like." 

Joly added that he thought that was Combeferre's influence. He knew the man from undergraduate school and where the SJW's leader was hot-headed and passionate, he was coolly logical. Jehan rolled his eyes and replied that Joly saw what he wanted to see because he'd had an academic crush on Combeferre ever since first year of undergrad when the other student had so thoroughly trounced his scores into the ground. Joly blushed, but didn't deny it. He did keep his peace after that, however.

Jehan said, "Regardless, at the core, I think they're just as out of control as ever. No one says 'No' to Enjolras for long." He leaned over to prod teasingly at Joly's shoulder, "Even the brilliant Combeferre."

No one says 'No' to Enjolras, hm? Grantaire's lips stretched up into a wide smile. Perhaps it was time someone did. He gave Jehan a gentle squeeze as he lifted his bourbon to take a drink. The memory of those scorching blue eyes on his caused a pleasant shiver to run down the back of his neck and Grantaire knew, just _knew_ , that though it was counter to all of his friends' advice, he wouldn't be leaving this one alone. He smirked across the room and lifted his glass to his kindred spirit of that other party, who smiled and lifted his in return. Once he'd knocked back the last of his drink, Grantaire turned back to Jehan and his smile widened. "Blogging, you said? Do they have a tumblr?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
> **Questions, comments, coconuts?**  
>  _Confession time:_ I resisted the Les Mis fandom for a _very_ long time. I'm honestly not sure why. I'd seen it three times when I was younger and it was originally on Broadway, but I was young enough that the very idea of fandom hadn't yet entered my subconscious. I'm also not a fan of the modern AU on general principle -- high school and coffee shop AUs drive me crazy. Here's the thing, though. The modern AUs in this fandom are flat out _amazing_. To be honest, I'm more than a little intimidated to make my own contribution. But I'm not going to deny it that Les Mis has entirely taken over my entire fannish consciousness this month... and I'm not going to deny that this particular modern AU sank its teeth into my ankle and will not let go. I'm not exactly disappointed by this. This is the most consistent writing I've done in a long time. I've several chapters worth of story ready for posting and I'm going to try to stay ahead of myself a bit. Hopefully this fic will continue to worry at my ankle and not let me ignore it. ^_^
> 
> So, here's where my issue comes in. As I'm sure you're aware having gotten through the first part, the language of this story doesn't necessarily match the topic I'm using it to discuss. I like that dichotomy -- formal language vs. ...tumblr. Here's my dilemma: I feel like that language is slipping away from me in the parts I'm writing now as the story gets more plot heavy and with more characters involved. I would love to pick up a beta-reader for this thing to help me keep the language consistent and to help pick up any continuity/characterization/SPaG issues there (most certainly) are. If you like what you've read and you think you might be interested... please let me know. You can drop me an ask on tumblr (eirenical) or e-mail me (chibi1723@hotmail.com) or even just say so in a comment. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A string of inventive and heartfelt cursing exploded from the next room and Courfeyrac jumped, then jumped again to avoid the hot coffee he'd sloshed out of his mug with that action. He turned towards Combeferre with an irritated frown, "That's the third time today. This is getting ridiculous."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _May 23, 2013:_** Just wanted to say thanks to all of you for the initial interest! ^_^ In this next chapter there is a bit of a shift to focus more on Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but we haven't left the others behind entirely. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/51163984815/follow-you-follow-me-8504-words-by-renee-chan).

A string of inventive and heartfelt cursing exploded from the next room and Courfeyrac jumped, then jumped again to avoid the hot coffee he'd sloshed out of his mug with that action. He turned towards Combeferre with an irritated frown, "That's the third time today. This is getting ridiculous."

Combeferre sighed and pulled off his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He leaned back in his chair and turned an eye towards the living room. When no explanation was forthcoming, he called out, "What is it this time, Enjolras?"

The blond picked up his laptop as though it carried some disease, brought it into the kitchen and placed it down between his two friends. The scowl on his face looked as though it were on its way to becoming permanent. He jabbed a finger at the screen and said through clenched teeth, "That." Combeferre obediently fitted his glasses back into place and he and Courfeyrac leaned over to read the offending message. 

Approximately one month prior, they'd noticed an oddly regular jump in traffic to their tumblr site, thesjws, but had no idea who had picked up their posts that could have directed such traffic in their direction. They'd tried turning on the function to show the reblogs on the dashboard, but well... Enjolras' rhetoric was popular among students worldwide and his posts were reblogged far too often to figure out which reblog it was that had set off each cascade. However, since each wave seemed to bring new followers to the blog, and even occasionally new members to the meetings, Combeferre had thought it a good thing and been content to leave it at that. Courfeyrac was more bothered by mysteries, in general, but didn't see much point in bothering with one that was actually helping them, so he left it alone, as well. Enjolras, on the other hand... He didn't deal well with mysteries and uncontrolled variables, at all. And this one ate away at him.

Someone out there was boosting their signal enough that it was making a real difference in what they were doing. And whoever it was was clever, too. Variations of their posts showed up all over tumblr, and eventually other social media sites, with witty and sometimes scathing commentary added. Sometimes that commentary was in support of what was said, sometimes against it, but whichever it was, it was always thought provoking. They'd reevaluated their plan of attack on several issues thanks to points brought to light by their rogue follower. And Enjolras was beside himself with his inability to control this sudden wildcard in their deck. It made him irritable -- more so even than usual.

This particular post had been about an article written in Time magazine about the millennial generation. Not every millennial was lazy, arrogant and as entitled as the article claimed. Certainly none among their own circle was. Enjolras had fumed about it for days before putting together a scathing burn of the entire article, carefully constructed rebuttal after carefully constructed rebuttal.

Courfeyrac snorted into his hand before turning away to hide his quiet laughter. Overnight, their mystery reblogger had turned every single one of Enjolras' counterarguments into a meme, complete with appropriate illustrations. They were all over, now, and every single one of them pointed back to Enjolras' original post. As a result, their follower count had gone up by nearly fifty just since this morning. But the very irreverence of those memes was the antithesis of everything Enjolras was. For him, the Fight, the Cause -- and in Enjolras' mouth, those words truly did resound with capital letters -- were of the utmost importance and seriousness. The idea that they could be amusing to anyone -- and worse that that humor might accomplish what his gravity had not in bringing more people on board with the SJW agenda -- was an insult as severe as a slap in the face.

But even Enjolras couldn't deny the wit and skill behind how this had been managed and that made him more irritable still.

Combeferre handed the laptop back over and said, "I assume you've had no luck tracking our rogue reblogger down, then?"

"None." That word was final and full of disappointment. The sense of failure was clear to read in Enjolras' eyes. Combeferre patted his arm where it hung down to a clenched fist. There was nothing more he could say. They'd been over this before.

Sensing the sudden gravity that had descended over the situation, Courfeyrac stopped his snickering to rejoin them. Taking in the uncharacteristic look of defeat in their fearless leader's face, he reached out to give Enjolras' shoulder a gentle squeeze, "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way." At Enjolras' raised eyebrow, Courfeyrac said, "You can't hope to sort through tens of thousands of reblogs and expect that your eye will catch the first instance of one of these additions -- especially as so many of them are in tags and those tags are always added into the text of the post by someone who isn't our reblogger. There's too much data and, as much as you try to hide it, Enjolras, you're only human. Humans are fallible. We get tired. We make mistakes."

A low growl signaled Enjolras' growing irritation with the diversion of topic. "The point, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac smiled, "The point is, this is the age of technology, my friend. That's what computer programs are for -- they don't get tired or bored and they don't miss things. Someone has to be able to design a program that could hunt through the reblogs of our various posts, add to it the data of the new followers that come in on these waves of reblogs, and pinpoint the source."

Combeferre picked up the thread of the thought, "And once we know which tumblr account this is coming from, we have a chance to figure out who it is that's doing this--"

"And confront them in the flesh." With the promise of a concrete plan of action and a goal, the blaze was finally back in Enjolras' eyes. 

As Courfeyrac left to make a few phone calls to track down someone among their group who could do what he'd suggested, Combeferre watched Enjolras with a worried gaze. They'd been friends a long time, Combeferre and Enjolras, and Combeferre knew all of his friend's moods even better than Enjolras did. He recognized this one all too well. Enjolras was rapidly becoming obsessed with their rogue reblogger, and depending on what they found when they discovered his or her identity, Enjolras might be in for one giant of a letdown. And a let down Enjolras could be unpredictable... and vindictive.

Luckily for them, Courfeyrac's search turned up exactly what they needed. Feuilly, one of their few members who didn't attend the university, was a gifted hacker. Actually, that was _why_ he no longer attended university. He'd been caught once and then kicked out of school for an undetermined length of time. So, now he filled his days with menial jobs and filled his nights with more of the same computer mischief which had gotten him kicked out to begin with. Fortunately, he seemed to only use his skills for good, else Enjolras would never have agreed to use him.

Unbeknownst to any of them, it had been Feuilly's activities that had kept the authorities from looking too closely at their actions when they'd been more marginal in their methods of persuasion. Feuilly had gotten a good laugh over their rogue reblogger and was interested enough in meeting him or her that he eagerly agreed to put his skills at their disposal.

It didn't take long after that. The one they were after had intelligence and wit, but he was no computer genius. Once Feuilly agreed to work his magic, he had a URL for them within a day. One day after that, he'd pinpointed the other's location to within their own city (though knowing Enjolras' penchant for knocking down doors to get what he wanted, he refused to specify any further than that). Even with that restriction, Enjolras had smiled about the matter for the first time in months… because as long as he had an avenue of communication, Enjolras had no doubt he'd soon have their rogue reblogger eating out of his palm and begging to join the Cause properly. It was almost a shame that this would be the first time that Enjolras' stubborn streak had finally met its match.

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

"Rebus."

"Yes."

"Well, that's a rather uninformative name, isn't it?"

Combeferre sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before answering Enjolras. "It's entirely uninformative, but considering that this person's actions seem designed to retain anonymity, I'd imagine that's rather the point."

Courfeyrac leaned forward onto the table and smiled. "It's clever, really."

Enjolras snorted, "He used a word for his username that basically means 'username'. How is that clever?"

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and sat back up. How was it clever? It just was. But, there was no use trying to explain that to Enjolras. He'd surrounded himself with friends and colleagues who said what they meant and did as they said. Courfeyrac was the least straightforward of all those who could claim that friendship and even he wasn't that much of a mystery. As a result, Enjolras was at a complete loss for how to respond to this. He'd sent direct "asks" to their rogue reblogger asking to meet, using every persuasive tool at his disposal -- and an Enjolras bent on being persuasive could talk the moon down out of orbit. They'd been politely declined. He'd started following the other user from his own personal blog and tried to draw him out that way, but that had failed, as well. What hadn't failed was his rapidly growing sense of obsession. The more he was ignored, the more he wanted-- the more he _needed_ to meet the other man. And that wasn't healthy. Because the bigger the build-up... the farther the fall. Courfeyrac understood that as well as Combeferre did and it worried him just as much.

A commotion on the other side of the bar drew Courfeyrac's attention before he had thought of an answer to Enjolras' question. Several young men were harassing the bartender. One -- a man with a riotous tumble of dark curls and a crooked grin -- had pulled her down into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. Courfeyrac frowned and stood. That was unacceptable. Eponine was one of his favorite bartenders. She always topped him off with a little extra when he was running low on cash and he always tipped her well when he wasn't. It was a magnificent arrangement and he didn't like to see her bothered like that.

A steadying hand touched his and Combeferre said quietly, "Maybe I should handle this."

Courfeyrac turned back towards the table to ask why Combeferre thought it best that he defend Eponine's honor... but a glance at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye as he turned quickly revealed why. This had nothing to do with Eponine.

Enjolras was not a man who drank. He only deigned to spend time here at the Musain because they were kind enough to lend the SJWs their upstairs room for little to no money whenever they needed a place for meetings that wasn't on university grounds -- an arrangement Courfeyrac was rather proud of and had only come about because of his acquaintance with Eponine. But tonight, Enjolras was on his second drink and looking as though he might reach for a third. Combeferre was of no use when Enjolras drank as an Enjolras who was drunk could be reasoned with even less than one who was sober. Courfeyrac generally had more success handling him on those few occasions when he indulged. Courfeyrac nodded to show he understood and sat back down. Combeferre let a small smile grace his lips, "Besides, I know one of their number and am at least passingly familiar with the rest. Unlike some people, I believe _they_ can be reasoned with." With one last resigned look for their leader, Combeferre rose and headed across the bar to deal with the others.

It really was a joy to watch Combeferre at work in situations like this. When he was so minded, Combeferre could not only coldly gut a man without laying a finger upon them but have the man and his companions thank him for the privilege when he was finished. He'd have made a fantastic lawyer but the mere suggestion was always met with disdain. Combeferre had no use for lawyers -- his close friendship with two burgeoning ones notwithstanding -- and preferred the rational precision of science. And that was just fine. He'd make a brilliant scientist, as well, probably discover the cure for cancer or the common cold. He'd make a brilliant anything he turned his hand to.

Absorbed as he was in watching Combeferre work, it took Courfeyrac longer than it should have to realize that he'd been speaking his musings out loud and that they were being echoed by the other at his table. He sighed and turned to face Enjolras. Enjolras... Enjolras was another matter, entirely. Courfeyrac had known Enjolras since they were children and, though brilliantly passionate when moved to it, he'd been repressed in his personal life even then. The more he aged, the more it took to get him to let down his guard and act even a little bit human. He could be so focused that it was a little frightening at times, even for those who knew him well. But once he had a drink or two in him, he not only let down his guard, but he became practically effusive with his praises -- and tipped off by Courfeyrac's musing, he was all but singing Combeferre's.

Courfeyrac smiled and ran a gentle hand through Enjolras' hair. He understood. He didn't have to get drunk to admit it, but he had a little bit of a crush on Combeferre, too. A lot of people did -- there was just something about the lure of the perfect and unattainable, he supposed. Again, though, for Enjolras, it was different. Admitting admiration, much less attraction, wasn't something he could do sober. There was no room in him for simple considerations like those.

It was something they didn't speak of often -- Enjolras' perpetual bachelorhood. It wasn't often he was drunk enough to even consider the question and even Courfeyrac didn't dare pursue that topic with his friend when he was sober. He wasn't sure even Enjolras knew who or what he was attracted to, sometimes -- or even if he was attracted to anyone so much as he was to his zeal for his causes. The one time that Courfeyrac had tried to set him up with someone, it had ended so disastrously that he hadn't had the courage to try, again... yet.

By that point, Combeferre had finished his discussion and was returning to their table. He was shaking his head. When he arrived, however, before he could even open his mouth, Enjolras opened his.

"You are the smartest man I know, Combeferre. Have I ever told you that? I mean... you're _very_ smart."

Combeferre met Courfeyrac's widened eyes and a genuine smile tipped the corner of his lips upwards. He took Enjolras' outstretched hand in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. He didn't respond in words, but that action and that smile were all the answer Enjolras needed. He lowered his head to his outstretched arm and closed his eyes, a soft smile of his own gracing his lips.

An eyebrow lifted, Combeferre turned towards Courfeyrac, who was just barely keeping his laughter quiet behind the palm of his hand, and said, "He is going to be even more unpleasant than usual when he sobers up if he remembers this." When Courfeyrac shrugged in response, Combeferre pulled his hand from Enjolras' now lax grip to pinch the bridge of his nose in a clear 'Why me?' gesture. He asked, "You were supposed to be watching him. Exactly how many drinks did he have whilst I was occupied?"

Courfeyrac was about to answer, 'Just the two,' when he realized that his own glass was a good deal emptier than it had been when Combeferre had left. In fact, it was completely empty. And it had been full when Courfeyrac had last looked. He blinked down into his empty glass and said, "Well... I thought just the two, but I'm also pretty certain that I don't recall starting, much less finishing, my drink, so I'm going to say he's had three."

"You were drinking Long Island Iced Teas, weren't you?" Combeferre's voice was pained. Eponine made Courfeyrac's special for him -- heavy on the vodka. Which meant that it would have gone down even easier than usual... and hit Enjolras like a ton of bricks. That explained quite a lot. Combeferre huffed out a short laugh as he took a sip of his own drink and lifted Courfeyrac's empty glass in Eponine's direction to indicate they'd like to replace what had been inside it. His final word on the subject was, "Forget unpleasant -- he's going to kill you when he wakes up."

As they waited for Eponine to make Courfeyrac's drink, the discussion turned to Enjolras, as it often did. For if Courfeyrac and Enjolras had a bit of a crush each on Combeferre, it was also true that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had a bit of one on Enjolras. That mutual crushing should have been enough, but unlike himself, both of Courfeyrac's friends were a little hopeless in the romance department. It was almost a shame, really. Combeferre was good for Enjolras, always had been. He brought out the best in those around him and Enjolras was all the calmer, all the more rational, all the more effective for his influence. And Enjolras brought out passion in Combeferre like no one else. They'd have been good for each other and Courfeyrac had, more than once, considered encouraging them towards each other... until he remembered what had happened the last time he'd tried to interfere in Enjolras' love life. That was more than enough to encourage him to keep his peace.

Besides, if there was any man who kept his romantic assignations even more private than Enjolras, it was Combeferre. Other than a vague rumor of someone seeing Combeferre eating dinner with a girl once their first year in college -- and that was hardly definitive proof of sexuality -- Courfeyrac knew even less about Combeferre's romantic predilections than he did Enjolras'. What he did know, however, was that his interference wouldn't be welcome -- as far as Combeferre was concerned, that would be as impractical as rocking a boat you were sitting in. And to an extent, Courfeyrac agreed. The balance between they three worked. It worked well. That mutual admiration and appreciation between them kept them close and provided for a wealth of support whenever it was needed. It meant that they got things accomplished that others could only dream of accomplishing. But, still...

As though sensing the track Courfeyrac's thoughts had taken -- it was a track they often took when Enjolras was drunk and insensate after spewing praises at one of them, after all -- Combeferre said rather pointedly, "We have quite enough on our plates without you getting ideas. Not everyone wishes to engage in complicated romantic relationships while completing a rigorous course of graduate study."

Courfeyrac laughed and said, "And that is why some people are wound so tightly they can't admit they enjoy their friends' company without getting drunk to do it."

Combeferre finished off his scotch and said, "For the sake of our friendship, I'm going to pretend you were referring solely to Enjolras when you made that statement."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, my friend." 

Conveniently for Courfeyrac, that was the moment Eponine indicated that she had his drink ready at the bar. Leaving Combeferre to watch over Enjolras, Courfeyrac made his way over. Before he could lavish one of his typically effusive greetings, however, Eponine pulled his drink away and lifted a finger to shake in his face, "I'll thank you to remember in the future that I am more than capable of handling myself within my own bar. You do not need to be -- or to send Combeferre to be -- my knight in shining armor unless I specifically ask it. Is that clear?"

As Courfeyrac blinked in confusion, trying to figure out exactly how he'd ended up in the wrong in this situation, the man who'd been harassing Eponine earlier stepped up to his rescue. Pushing his empty glass across the bar, the man said, "Don't mind Eponine. She's still irritated that I got the drop on her to begin with." Ignoring her as best he could as she whipped him with the bar rag, he continued, "I don't believe you and I were properly introduced the last time we met, but I must say it's nice to finally meet the other regular in Eponine's life." He held out his hand. "Grantaire."

"Courfeyrac." 'The other regular,' hm? That explained Eponine's reaction. The relationship between bartender and patron was surely not an exclusive one and from the looks of irritated affection Eponine was sending in Grantaire's direction, he was a fairly constant presence in this bar. And that meant that what Courfeyrac had sent Combeferre to interrupt had been heavy-handed teasing, not cruel harassment. He should have remember that about Eponine -- she was more than capable of fending off unwanted advances and generally became rather vocally and physically vehement about it when said advances were pursued against her wishes. His friend Bahorel had found that out the hard way once. Once had been all it took.

As he shook hands with Grantaire on it, however -- no hard feelings, of course -- Courfeyrac frowned. "When had we met? I believe I'd recall having met you. You seem to leave an impression."

Grantaire swept him an overblown bow, as though that fact were the highest of compliments. "It was a little more than a month ago. Jehan and I had the great fortune to... hm." He smiled, a mischievous twinkle beginning to shine in his eyes as he finished, "...stumble over you, you could say, as we were attempting to dance."

Courfeyrac's eyes narrowed as he thought back, then widened again as he remembered the incident in question. He smiled. "Ah, yes. Now, I remember. Enjolras had quite a bit to say about your character and probable ancestry on the way home. I was impressed. I hadn't realized he'd known half of those words."

Grantaire laughed. "Well, I'm glad to have inspired such eloquence. Is he here tonight? Perhaps I can inspire more."

They both turned towards Courfeyrac's table. Enjolras was still sound asleep and Combeferre was still watching over him, a tender smile on his face that he'd have denied was there to his dying breath if Courfeyrac had attempted to call him on it. Courfeyrac sighed. It really was a shame...

"Pining?"

Courfeyrac winced as he turned back to Grantaire and Eponine. That was a little closer to the truth than he really wished to share with someone who was virtually a stranger, so he simply said, "It's complicated."

Grantaire's eyebrow lifted and a smirk spread over his features, "Well, now. I think we all know what that means, these days."

Eponine reached out a hand to touch Grantaire's shoulder and just shook her head. Bless her heart. He really didn't want to have to explain the codependant complications which were his friendships with Combeferre and Enjolras.

What Eponine did say was, "Courfeyrac, do you want me to call you boys a cab? Enjolras is clearly done in and I can't imagine you want to let him sleep it off in the bar."

When Courfeyrac nodded, Grantaire smiled and mouthed, "You're a cab!" Eponine's gentle touch turned into a not entirely gentle thwack to the back of Grantaire's head. She shook a finger at him and said, "You've already tested my goodwill enough for one night, R. Be nice."

Grantaire held up his hands in surrender and picked up the glass that Eponine had been kind enough to refill for him while they'd been talking. "I'll leave you to it, then, and return to minding my own business."

It wasn't until later that night, as he and Combeferre were manhandling Enjolras out of his clothes and into his bed that it occurred to Courfeyrac that talking to Grantaire had felt far too comfortable, as though he'd been speaking with an old friend, no matter how briefly. Eventually he chalked it up to his own blurred senses and his tendency to consider every fellow drinker a friend once he'd had a few, but that thought wouldn't entirely leave him. In fact, it set up camp in the back of his mind and settled in for a good, long wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitter vitriol churning in his gut, Grantaire typed back, "I know you, Enjolras, but you do not know me. If you could have tracked me down you would have done so by now. I've no use for your empty threats and even less use for the things ~you~ think you want. Try again, love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _May 25, 2013:_** Thank you all, again, for your continued interest! ^_^ In this chapter, the plot continues to thicken, another important character is introduced... and Courfeyrac finally meets Rebus. *dun dun dun!*
> 
> Mostly, though, I posted this note to let you know that I've reached the end of what I already had written and, unfortunately, didn't have as much time to write this week as I'd have liked. So, there may be a bit of a posting hiatus while I get more written. Sorry about that, but I hope you enjoy this chapter in the meantime! ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/51318866843/follow-you-follow-me-11819-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

"I know you're in the city. I could find you if I truly wished. Meet with me."

Gantaire read the message, again... and again... and again. There was so much contained in those few words. It had been almost three months since he'd started this game with Enjolras via tumblr. Since figuring out his tumblr name, Enjolras had changed tactics, started following him from his own account -- and really who used their real name for their tumblr? -- sending him message after message, demanding he cease his activities, demanding he show more respect for the cause... eventually demanding to meet. That had been unexpected, though looking back, it probably shouldn't have been. And _damn_ it, the man was persuasive! But, Grantaire was having far too much fun to end the game, now. It amused him how much it rankled Enjolras not to know what Grantaire was going to do with his posts. It amused him even more imaging how it must infuriate Enjolras to know that he owed the SJW's recent upswing in popularity to someone he didn't know and couldn't control.

More than that though -- more than the amusement, more than the appeal of helping the man without having to truly invest in his causes... more than that, Grantaire was afraid. He'd crossed paths with Enjolras and his friends at the Musain more than once since that first time and while Joly got on with Combeferre like a house on fire and Courfeyrac seemed to have latched on to Grantaire and Jehan, the only one of their number whom Enjolras ever deigned to speak with was Bossuet. Everything about Bossuet was non-threatening -- barring his reverse Midas touch -- and he was often content to sit and listen as Enjolras expounded on whatever cause had him on fire that week. He'd even gone to a few of the SJW's meetings, came back all on fire, himself, and Enjolras loved nothing more than a new convert to the cause -- whatever cause it was.

The point, however, was that as obsessed as Enjolras was with 'Rebus' -- and he was obsessed, of that Grantaire had no doubt -- he had no patience at all for Grantaire. Grantaire chuckled. Who'd have thought? He'd become Clark Kent to Enjolras' Lois Lane... and no matter how deeply Clark might come to feel for Lois, he could never compete with Superman -- because Superman was of the best parts of his own self.

"Brilliantly played, Grantaire. Becoming your own competition was not the brightest move you could have made." Grantaire shook his head in disgust, then finished off the wine in his glass in one gulp. It was easy on tumblr. It was easy to pretend to an intelligence and a wit that he never felt he possessed in person. It was easy to keep Enjolras interested when their entire conversation revolved around things about which Enjolras was passionate. But that wasn't real. Grantaire, himself, was a person, not just a reflection of Enjolras. He had needs, interests, desires, which had nothing whatsoever to do with Enjolras' revolutionary zeal. And he was far from perfect. He drank too much. He didn't put enough effort into his studies. He drifted from major to major, never satisfied with what he'd decided on, never gaining enough credits in any one direction to culminate in a degree yet too terrified of the ramifications of leaving school, by graduation or otherwise, to attempt to change it. He didn't live up to his potential -- or so Joly was always saying. He didn't care enough. He cared too much. He wasted his time in meaningless pursuits just because they amused him.

In short... Grantaire was a disappointment. It wasn't exactly news. He'd been a disappointment all of his life -- to his mother because he wasn't serious enough and couldn't be trusted with even the most minor of familial responsibility, to his father because he wasn't beautiful enough and their family had a standard to uphold, to his teachers because they saw the potential in him and wrung their hands when they were incapable of bringing it out of him. He was a disappointment to everyone... including himself.

Grantaire was disappointed in himself because everyone felt he should be, because he could see no redeeming value in his life except a tremendous tolerance for alcohol and a penchant for petty scribbling. He'd taken an art course once in high school, in fact. Yet another disappointment. Except... his teacher hadn't been disappointed. In fact, Ms. Gros stood out as the solitary adult figure in Grantaire's life to that point and since, who hadn't been. No, the disappointment had, again, been his parents' -- for wasting time on frivolous pursuits when his grades were already suffering. And that had been the end of that brief flare of self-worth. And that was all there was. Disappointment. Disillusionment. And Grantaire knew Enjolras well enough by now to know that if he were to reveal that Enjolras' venerated 'Rebus' was none other than the drunken wastrel he disdained whenever their paths were unfortunate enough to cross... he would quickly be added to the list of people Grantaire had disappointed in his life.

Bitter vitriol churning in his gut, Grantaire typed back, "I know you, Enjolras, but you do not know me. If you could have tracked me down you would have done so by now. I've no use for your empty threats and even less use for the things ~you~ think you want. Try again, love."

Grantaire lifted the wine bottle and took a pull straight from it. When he put it back down, he slumped back into the couch cushions and frowned at the "Message sent!" that popped up on his screen. He muttered darkly, "Decipher that, if you can, Enjolras."

There was no response from Enjolras, but five minutes later, he had a new message in his Inbox from loveslabourswon -- it hadn't taken Grantaire long at all to figure out that that was tumblr parlance for 'Courfeyrac' -- which said quite simply, "You're an ass."

Grantaire responded with, "~I'm~ an ass? I've done nothing but boost your signal for three months and instead of being grateful, he threatens me!"

"~sigh~ He doesn't deal well with mysteries and you are a very large, very pink elephant of a mystery, Rebus. He doesn't have a great wealth of patience to begin with and you constantly taunting him makes him more irritable than usual."

"Well, how sad. I happen to like being a mystery and intend to remain one for the foreseeable future. If he doesn't like it, too bad for him."

"Too bad for ~him~? How about too bad for ~me~? How about too bad for everyone who has to be around him on a daily basis? I appreciate all you've been doing to help, you know I do, but we're the ones suffering for this game between the two of you, not you."

Grantaire paused in the act of replying, tried to decide if he was being played or not. Courfeyrac had a tendency to exaggerate his feelings, especially when they were hurt feelings, and he wasn't above playing it up just to get what he wanted. Still... Courfeyrac was right. The game had to change somehow… In the end, Grantaire typed five words -- five words that changed everything.

"The Musain. 9:30. Come alone."

~~**~~**~~**~~

Combeferre leaned over Courfeyrac's phone and smiled a grim smile, "He took the bait?"

Courfeyrac nodded, "He took the bait." The response to his next message -- how he would know who he was looking for -- was simply, 'You'll know me when you see me.' Courfeyrac sighed, ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, "I don't like this, Combeferre. I don't like doing this behind his back." He jerked his head towards the other room where Enjolras was still pacing and ranting to the potted plants over Rebus' response to his latest demand for a meeting.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Combeferre said, "You agree that we need to know what he's jumping into before we let him jump, yes?" Without even waiting for an answer, he continued, "Because at this point, when he finally meets whoever this is, they're going to pick up speed like a runaway train after all this build up. _We_ need to know which way to jump when that finally happens. We need information. I refuse to go into this blind, and Rebus seems to get along with you best of the few of us who have had contact with him. You're our best chance -- and if you think I didn't wish it were different and I could go in your place, think again."

"You're right. Of course, you're right." Courfeyrac sighed, then grumped, "But that still doesn't mean I have to like it."

When 9:30 finally came around, Courfeyrac was at the Musain and more nervous than he'd ever been before a date -- perhaps because this wasn't a date. It was far more important than that because in very real way... he was screening a potential date for Enjolras. And his interference in Enjolras' love life had always gone disastrously in the past. He wasn't up to this task. What had Combeferre been thinking? Combeferre should have come. Rebus had never met either or them, so how would he know the difference? Surely Combeferre could have faked being him for one night. Or Feuilly -- Feuilly was a roll-with-the-punches, unflappable sort. Or Bahorel -- Bahorel's no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners attitude would have been far better suited to this situation. Even having Marius there would have been a bonus. Courfeyrac's roommate might not be as involved with the SJWs as Courfeyrac, but Marius had a bright optimism to him that never quit and Courfeyrac could have used a dose of it right about now. But, like so often before, what he wanted wasn't important -- what he had to do was. And what he had to do was walk into that bar and meet Rebus. G-d help them both.

Courfeyrac took a moment once he was inside to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and to surreptitiously scan the place for anyone who might be Rebus. There were a few people scattered around the pool table playing a congenial game of 8 ball -- at least it was congenial for now. Courfeyrac recognized Eponine's little brother, Gavroche, among their number. The little urchin was known for hustling a game or two when the mood struck and no, Courfeyrac hadn't been victim to that particular scheme, thank you very much, no matter _what_ Gavroche said about it. He'd been playing along, trying to help the child out, nothing more. Either way, as he was relatively certain that Gavroche wasn't Rebus and that none of those playing were, either, Courfeyrac moved on in his inspection.

Eponine's other barfly, Grantaire, was in his usual corner with his coterie of friends, laughing over something or another that Jehan was saying. When he caught sight of Courfeyrac in the doorway, his smile widened and he waved him over. Courfeyrac smiled back but shook his head. As much as he enjoyed knocking back a few with that group when Combeferre and Enjolras weren't around to spew their disapproving glances over the proceedings, he had more important business tonight.

There weren't many others sitting at the tables, and somehow Courfeyrac had known that he wouldn't find who he was looking for hidden amongst them. He'd be at the bar -- it seemed Rebus' style. Eponine was at one end, washing out glasses, and again, Courfeyrac was relatively certain that it wasn't her. There was only one other figure at the bar -- tall, curvy, with skin the color of sun-warmed bronze and a wealth of blond hair cascading in waves down her back -- yes, _her_ , for she was decidedly a she. That was not something Courfeyrac had expected. He stepped up to the bar and settled onto a stool two seats away from her, trying to get a feel for who she was. Eponine dumped a drink in front of him with a barely hidden scowl and Courfeyrac was so busy trying to readjust his expectations that he didn't even bother asking what he'd done to earn it. He'd just walked in, for goodness' sake. Surely, for once, Eponine's foul temper wasn't his fault.

After a few minutes of observing the blond rolling her glass of wine back and forth between her hands, Courfeyrac finally got up the nerve to lean in and ask, "Rebus?"

The woman turned, smiled, and slipped him a wink before saying in response, "You must be loveslabourslost. I told you you'd know me when you saw me. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." She dipped her gaze away from his for a moment, a secretive smile alighting on her features before she looked back up and said, "But in the interest of polite conversation," she held out her hand for Courfeyrac to shake, "I am called Cosette. Surely your friends call you something more conversationally appropriate, as well? I'll feel rather silly addressing you by your tumblr name all night."

As Courfeyrac introduced himself on autopilot, his mind set off on a desperate whirl. In spite of having discussed the possibility that Rebus might be a woman, they'd never seriously considered it. On some level, they'd all thought Rebus was a man like themselves. Surely this changed the game. It had to. Didn't it? At the very least, it explained why Rebus had always declined Enjolras' somewhat aggressive demands for a meeting. It explained why Rebus had been so very unforthcoming with any personal details, why she was always so coquettish in her little game of cat and mouse with Enjolras. It explained so very much.

And, damn it all, unless Courfeyrac really had missed his mark judging Enjolras' preferences, he suspected that any chance he'd had of brokering a relationship between Rebus and Enjolras had just gone abysmally down the tubes. Still, he didn't know anything for sure, and it couldn't hurt to try... could it?

~~**~~**~~**~~

Eponine made her way over to Grantaire's table with their refill order for drinks, one eye on Courfeyrac and the other on her girlfriend. It was a wonder she didn't take a tumble on the way or spill a drink. Courfeyrac would flirt with anything that moved and she didn't like the way he was leaning over Cosette. She didn't like the way that his arm was so close, his fingers almost brushing Cosette's where they rested on the bar. She didn't like the way that his eyes lingered over her features as though memorizing them for later use. Most of all, though, she didn't like how Cosette was flirting back. It was all a game, she knew, and one Cosette was skilled at -- had been since they'd been girls -- but Eponine never would have agreed to it if Cosette hadn't been so overwhelmingly cheerful and excited by the thought of the ruse when Grantaire had suggested it in the first place.

Speaking of... Eponine thumped the tray down in the middle of the table and fought the urge to throw Grantaire's drink in his face. "If he lays even one, single _finger_ on her, I will kill you deader than dead, Grantaire, and don't think I won't."

When Grantaire held up his hands in surrender, then meekly extended one of them to take his drink, Eponine snatched it up before he could reach it and downed it in one gulp. She might not usually indulge while working, but that didn't mean she couldn't knock a few back with the best of them -- and right now, she needed it. The nerve of Grantaire to involve Cosette in sorting out this mess just because he hadn't been able to keep away from Enjolras like Eponine had advised! She grabbed Jehan's drink out of his hand, made a face at the first sip -- really, who drank Malibu Bay Breezes in the middle of winter? -- then slammed that one back, as well. It was a good thing that Cosette was made of far sterner stuff than she appeared to be. She really was more than capable of handling Courfeyrac, even at his worst, and Eponine _did_ trust her... but she still didn't like this. Not one bit.

Grantaire -- Grantaire, of all people! -- grabbed Eponine's hands before she could reach for Joly's drink, too, and shook his head. The look of sympathy on his face was too much -- Eponine didn't need it, didn't want it, was pissed as hell that he was trying to feed it to her -- but when she tried to punch it off of his face, Grantaire used her half-hearted momentum to gather her up in his arms, tuck her head under his chin and start gently rocking her back and forth. As she reluctantly allowed herself to be soothed, Eponine said quietly, yet vehemently, "I hate you."

"I know, love. I know you do." That was all he said on the matter, but he kept up that infernal rocking until Cosette whistled for her from the bar. That was her cue.

She rang up Courfeyrac's tab -- and he'd had the nerve to presume to pay for Cosette's drink, as if Cosette ever paid for drinks in Eponine's bar! After all, it was thanks to Cosette's father that Eponine even _had_ a bar -- and watched as he went on his way with a dazed smile on his face. Only the fact that Cosette broke into a spate of amused snickering at his expense once he'd gone allowed Eponine to relax from the tense posture she'd been in since this thing began. Cosette made a face and asked, "Dear Lord, is he always like that?"

Eponine leaned over the bar to take Cosette's hand in hers. Cosette obliged by pressing that hand gently to the curve of her face. At the eyebrow Cosette arched in her direction, Eponine finally laughed. "Actually, he was on his best behavior, tonight. Usually, he's far worse." She straightened, spoke her next words in Grantaire's direction, thoroughly enjoying watching him choke on his drink as those words hit home. "Then again, he wasn't flirting on his own behalf, was he? He was flirting on Enjolras'."

Cosette turned in Grantaire's direction, as well, smile full of as much desire for mischief as Eponine's. "Is that so? Well, sir, you didn't tell me I'd be playing Christian to your Cyrano in this farce, as well! That may cost you extra -- things don't end well for Christian, you know."

At Grantaire's bewildered, "I'm paying you?" both Eponine and Cosette began to laugh. When Cosette calmed, she reassured him that she had agreed to play this particular role for fun and that really, this just spiced things up a bit, but it was clear that they now had some planning to do. A quick nod to Eponine had her shooing everyone else out of the bar and putting up the closed sign. Eponine then brought over another round of drinks and she and Cosette settled in at the table with the others. Gavroche grumbled at her and started cleaning up the tables -- and if he pocketed the tips, well. Just this once, Eponine wouldn't say anything.

Cosette leaned in towards Grantaire and said, "In all earnestness, Grantaire, I want to help. You've done Eponine a good turn more than once and my father always taught me to not only pay my debts, but to pay forward any acts of kindness I can, as well. However, it's now clear that there is quite a bit more going on here than you initially let on. Until I know the rest of the details, this is as far as I go. Deal?" Grantaire swallowed hard but agreed readily enough. Cosette reached out a hand to pat one of his. "Good. Then why don't you start at the beginning?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' hand clenched into a fist at his side and Jehan's breath caught until he'd relaxed it, again. Just as the silence was beginning to get truly awkward, Grantaire finally swayed, just barely caught himself on the wall behind him. At that, Enjolras sneered and said, dismissively, "You should stick to your drinking, Grantaire. Leave these discussions to people who are sober enough to have them." And with that parting shot, Enjolras pushed past him to the door, only pausing long enough to let Eponine unlock it before heading inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _May 29, 2013:_** Thank you to all the lovely people who have commented on this story and who have followed me to my tumblr to give encouragement, as well! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/51673060788/follow-you-follow-me-16560-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

Nothing much changed over the next few weeks. Grantaire continued playing his game with Enjolras as Rebus on tumblr and Cosette occasionally played hers with Courfeyrac at the Musain. Courfeyrac's attempts to discern more about her and how she felt about his fearless leader were always met with gentle, skilled misdirection -- truly, Grantaire was glad that Cosette was on his side in this. He'd not wish to be her enemy for anything in the world.

Eponine was still irritable about the whole thing, but she did like Grantaire and was glad enough that he'd come to her for help to begin with that she kept her peace. The fact that Cosette was having such fun with the whole thing certainly didn't hurt. However, she drew the line -- absolutely drew the line -- when Cosette said she was going to let Courfeyrac talk her into coming to one of the SJW's rallies. Cosette had rolled her eyes, explained that she wasn't planning to go as Rebus, just as Cosette, a fellow student. Only Courfeyrac would know the 'truth,' and if Eponine was really that worried about it, she could come with. In the end, they'd both decided to go and Joly agreed to go along with them. Cosette and Grantaire had had an extensive planning session beforehand to catch her up on the most recent debates he and Enjolras had had on tumblr. She was as prepared as he could make her. And if a very small part of him wished that he was going in her place... well, it was a very small part and he shushed it the way he always did -- with drink.

Grantaire made one last post to tumblr that night, then handed his computer off to Jehan. It wouldn't do to have Rebus responding to new posts while Cosette was at the rally. That would give her away to Courfeyrac and the game would be well and truly over. What Grantaire hadn't anticipated, however was how difficult it would be to stay away. By noon, he was already awake and a bit fretful, missing his daily sparring matches with Enjolras more than he'd thought possible. In quiet desperation for a distraction, he eventually let Jehan talk him into a movie (something childish and ridiculous and far more tear inducing than any animated movie had a right to be, and really could Jehan _get_ any more clichéd in his tastes?), but found it nigh impossible to focus on anything other than the fact that he'd had no contact with Enjolras in over twelve hours... and that Cosette was probably meeting him even now.

...and that opened up an entirely new can of worries. Because, what if Enjolras fell for her? Cosette was beautiful, one of the few people Grantaire had ever met who could give Enjolras competition in the pure looks department, and she was brilliant and strong and she wouldn't let Enjolras take her for granted. How could he _not_ fall in love with her? Grantaire really hadn't thought this through.

Then again, if Cosette was the only person Grantaire knew who could match Enjolras' beauty, there was also only one person Grantaire knew who could match Enjolras in stubbornness -- Eponine. And Eponine had made it quite clear that where Cosette went, she would go. It wasn't that she didn't trust Cosette -- she did. It was that she didn't trust men around Cosette. Some of them didn't understand that 'No' meant 'No.' And Cosette understood her lover's insecurities well enough to cater to them without letting them suffocate either of them. Besides, Eponine's overprotectiveness made Cosette's fathers happy and that was not something to be lightly pushed aside. It prevented her from having to shake a trail of bodyguards everywhere she went. So, Cosette could take care of herself and Eponine could handle Enjolras and it would all be just _fine_ and he should just stop worrying about it all-- Jesus, he needed a drink. 

Knowing that they wouldn't see the others until much later that evening and tired of managing him alone and sober, Jehan took pity on Grantaire and agreed to join him at the Corinthe. Unlike the Musain, the Corinthe did most of its business later at night, catering to the club crowds on their way out for the night and then later again, on their way home. It was across town from the Musain and due to the composition of its crowd, not one that Grantaire and his friends frequented often, but the atmosphere was friendly enough -- due in no small part to Joly's on-again, off-again girlfriend, and the Corinthe's proprietor, Musichetta. Because, no matter what the state of their relationship, Musichetta was always kind to Joly's friends.

When Jehan and Grantaire arrived, the place was fairly dead. In fact, other than Bossuet and Musichetta, there was no one else there. Bossuet was sitting at the bar and hanging on Musichetta's every word. And Musichetta's every word seemed to be a listing of Joly's faults. Ah. Seemed as though they were 'off again' at the moment. That happened sometimes, whenever Joly's eccentricities got the better of him and Musichetta needed a break.

Grantaire and Jehan slid onto stools on either side of Bossuet and Grantaire gave Musichetta a hopeful look. He wasn't really interested in the drama in Musichetta and Joly's relationship right now. He had enough drama in his own life, far more than he liked. What he wanted was a quiet corner in which he could get thoroughly and monumentally drunk -- enough to forget all that drama. Musichetta matched him stare for stare for a moment before rolling her eyes and giving in to the inevitable and simply putting a glass and a bottle of Wild Turkey next to Grantaire on the bar. "If you're going to drink me dry, you can at least pour your own drinks and stay out of my hair."

Sliding a twenty across to her, Grantaire made off with his appropriated drink and settled into a table in the corner. He liked corners, liked the protection of having the wall at his back, liked the fact that he had a view of everyone in the room but they didn't have the same view of him. It wasn't paranoia. He just didn't like to be surprised. Too much in his life surprised him as it was. Pouring a generous amount of bourbon into his glass, Grantaire set about doing the one thing he truly excelled at -- making the alcohol inside the bottle disappear.

~~**~~**~~**~~

Musichetta watched as Grantaire made off with his bottle and sank into a determined slouch in the corner of the bar. Even for Grantaire, it looked like he was going to settle in for some far more serious drinking than usual. And if there was one thing Musichetta had noticed about Grantaire, it was this: though he enjoyed his drink for its own sake, he usually seemed to use it more as a social prop. He was more comfortable around a crowd with a glass in his hands and a fire in his belly from the drink and normally he had it well under control, never indulged more than was safe and never indulged when it was irresponsible to do so. Tonight, though... tonight seemed different. The drink was its own end tonight. She wasn't sure she liked that and said so.

Jehan nodded, "I noticed that, myself. I'm pretty sure I even know why, but it isn't my secret to tell." He sighed, eventually shook the thoughts of the friend he couldn't help from his head and turned back to the one he could. "I don't suppose I can prevail upon you for a Shirley Temple?"

When Bossuet snorted out a laugh at the question, Musichetta reached out and gently smacked him on the shoulder, "Bossuet, be nice. Not everyone has to drink straight vodka to be welcome here and I, for one, am always glad to see one of you being responsible when everyone else around you is determined not to be." She put the requested drink down in front of Jehan and tossed in three extra cherries as an apology for Bossuet's behavior.

Bossuet grinned sheepishly at Jehan and shrugged. No hard feelings. Jehan just smiled and lifted his drink to take a sip. It really had been a tough afternoon, trying to keep Grantaire occupied with Cosette and Eponine at the rally and him unable to even engage in his favorite form of distraction for fear of outing Cosette to Courfeyrac as 'not-Rebus'. Still, he'd been on his best behavior for Jehan. Grantaire had even let Jehan drag him to see Wreck It Ralph at the college theatre, and normally Grantaire wouldn't be caught dead at a kids' movie -- much less sobbing his way through the end of one.

Jehan sighed, then deliberately turned his thoughts back away from Grantaire. Only time and Cosette's report of her meeting Enjolras would fix what was bothering Grantaire, right now. Jehan refocused on Musichetta, determined to at least help one of his friends, today. "So, am I to take it that you and Joly are having difficulties, again?"

Musichetta rolled her eyes at the conspicuous change of subject, but allowed it nonetheless. She knew as well as he why he'd done it. "I love the man to death, Jean Prouvaire. I really do. The problem is that there are days when it feels like his love is suffocating me." She waved a hand around the room before slapping it down on the bar, "I am proud of what I do. I am _damned_ proud of what I do. I run a clean establishment and we have never had a problem with health code violations, even with the crowd we draw and that is no small feat, let me tell you. In fact, given Joly's regular visits, I keep this place clean enough that even he could eat straight off the floor with little difficulty."

Jehan winced in sympathy, understanding easily enough where this was going. Joly's OCD had only gotten worse since starting medical school, though all his friends had hoped it would go the other way, and occasionally he drove them to distraction with his need to keep things practically sterile. He'd mastered the art of tamping it down in public and to the outside observer seemed health-and-cleanliness-conscious but no more than your average medical student. Unfortunately, the effort of keeping it under wraps in public made him ten times worse in private with the people he was close to. Like Grantaire with his drinking, Joly was smart enough to engage in his worst behaviors around people he knew would forgive him for it. And poor Musichetta was the one who most often suffered when he got himself in a spin.

Musichetta finally rounded on Bossuet and said, "Honestly, how on Earth do you live with the man? The few times I've spent the night, he all but followed me around the house with a Dustbuster and I know I'm less accident prone than you _and_ I always clean up after myself! I'm not a child."

Bossuet shrugged and said, "I don't mind." At Musichetta and Jehan's looks of utter disbelief, he smiled sheepishly. "I really don't. He lets me stay with him for practically nothing so I can afford my tuition. Compared to that kindness, the kindness of indulging his OCD is nothing. And since we both know that it's a given that at some point I'm going to spill something or drop something, he doesn't have to stress about the possibility of it happening and just knows to prepared for the eventuality that it will. That takes the worry out of it for him and allows him to feel proactive instead of reactive. And since I know how much it means to him to have a clean place and we're both happier for the company, I don't fuss about him following me around with the Dustbuster so _I_ don't have to stress about the fact that eventually I'll screw up and make a mess. I know I will. He knows I will. I know he'll then obsessively clean up after me and there are no hard feelings between us. It works and keeps us both happy and relatively de-stressed."

Musichetta put a hand to her head and muttered something under her breath that sounded like, "You pair of knuckleheads deserve each other," but when asked, she denied that that was what she'd said and refused to repeat it.

They passed the rest of the evening with Musichetta and Bossuet, helping to cover the bar when early customers came in and wanted something to eat. Grantaire spent a fair portion of the day drinking quietly in the corner, but it wasn't until Musichetta caught him trying to sneak away from the bar with a second full bottle of bourbon that any of them realized exactly how much he'd drunk. Musichetta took the bottle away from him, ordered him back to his corner and bustled off to the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee and some dinner for the four of them.

Grantaire complained loudly about this unfair treatment, but Jehan reminded him that he wasn't going to want to hear what Cosette had to say while still this drunk. Grantaire's return volley contained a significant number of curse words and other insults and summed up to, "The hell I wouldn't!" and "You're not the boss of me!" Jehan didn't even dignify that answer with a response, his silence speaking louder than words ever could of his disapproval of Grantaire's behavior.

Grantaire passed the rest of the evening in sullen silence, barely touching the food that Musichetta had put in front of him and disdaining the coffee altogether, claiming that if he'd wanted to be sober, he wouldn't have drunk so deeply of the bottle in the first place. There was no reasoning with him when he got like this, so they left him to his own devices. Jehan just fervently wished that the walk over to the Musain would sober him up.

...it didn't.

9:30 PM. Jehan, Bossuet and Grantaire had beaten Cosette, Eponine and Joly to the Musain -- not by much, but by just enough. Grantaire had sat down on the sidewalk in front of the door and starting humming under his breath, eyes glazed and willfully unseeing. Jehan stared down at him in disbelief. The Corinthe was on the other side of town. They'd walked. It was freezing cold, but Jehan had insisted, hoping the cold air would do Grantaire some good and sober him up a little. If anything, it seemed to have had the opposite effect and he was more drunk than when they'd started.

It wasn't until Jehan asked Bossuet to run around the back to check if the employee entrance was open that he figured out why. As he turned back to Grantaire, Jehan caught him quickly tucking something back inside his coat. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jehan reached out and grabbed Grantaire's arm before he could tuck it fully away. And what was he tucking away? A flask. "Grantaire!"

An embarrassed flush crept up Grantaire's neck and swept over his cheeks as he jerked his hand from Jehan's surprise-slackened grip. "What? Never seen one before? Need a closer look? Maybe you want one of your own?"

Jehan ignored the biting questions, well-familiar with Grantaire's tendency to attack when embarrassed and refusing to take it personally. Instead, he sat down next to Grantaire and leaned into his shoulder, said simply, "Talk to me."

When Grantaire's answer was to tip the flask back to his lips and take another drink, Jehan frowned. He said, "I know you, Grantaire. You don't do this -- not when it's important. This whole thing got harder when you threw Cosette into the mix and you'll need a clear head when she and Eponine get back. You know that, so what's going on?"

Grantaire shrugged and said, "Cosette's better at this than I am. So're you. So's Bossuet and Joly. You've all been to these meetings of his. I've seen the look in your eyes when you get home, Jehan. You're all fired up -- all of you. That passion... I don't know why, but I don't have it. I read his posts and I research these issues and I can see why you all get so riled about them, but whatever it is in me that should care... Jehan, I just don't." Though he'd been getting louder and louder with each passing word, his next words were quiet and whispered into the folds of his scarf as though to prevent them being heard, "I think... I think I might be a bad person."

When Jehan said nothing, Grantaire continued, still whispering, still ducking down into his scarf. "I know there are people starving out there and I should want to get on a plane and bring them something to eat or whatever you do, but all I can think is, 'What's the point?' So we bring them food and they eat for a day. Maybe we teach them to grow their own and they eat for a season. What happens when the next drought comes along or the next crop infestation? We go back, again? And again? And again? What's the point? I just can't get around how it all seems so useless."

The answer came from above, in a voice so tightly controlled that it was clear its owner was only just barely keeping himself from screaming his response. "Of course, we go back. If there's drought, we find ways to irrigate. If there's infestation in the crops, we bring pesticides. There's always something more to be done."

The sinking feeling in Jehan's stomach sprouted wings and began banging around inside him like a cluster of drunk butterflies. He looked up to see that Cosette, Eponine and Joly had brought company back with them -- the entirety of the SJWs... including Enjolras. 

Jehan turned back to Grantaire just in time to see despair at Enjolras' familiar disdain turn his eyes dark and cold... and to see the fury of embarrassment light a fire underneath that. Grantaire pushed against the wall and got himself to his feet, and though unsteady, he didn't fall. He shot back, "And what if those pesticides poison the earth you're growing from so that when the drought is over the ground water is undrinkable? Or maybe you bring in something 'natural' -- some bug that kills other bugs? And that bug invades the local ecosystem and wipes out something crucial for its stability. It's all just Band-aids, can't you see that? Nothing really changes."

Enjolras' hand clenched into a fist at his side and Jehan's breath caught until he'd relaxed it, again. Just as the silence was beginning to get truly awkward, Grantaire finally swayed, just barely caught himself on the wall behind him. At that, Enjolras sneered and said, dismissively, "You should stick to your drinking, Grantaire. Leave these discussions to people who are sober enough to have them." And with that parting shot, Enjolras pushed past him to the door, only pausing long enough to let Eponine unlock it before heading inside.

Jehan watched in silent horror as the rest of the group filed past them, only regathering his wits once they'd all gone inside. Grantaire's head was down, unruly curls tumbling over his face to hide his eyes. Jehan held out a hand to him, unsure of what his welcome would be, but sure of one thing -- if Grantaire had been unhappy before, he was ten times worse than that, now. He always was after one of these confrontations with Enjolras. So, no one could have been more surprised than Jehan when Grantaire suddenly flung up his head with a bright smile and clapped his hands together. "Well, you heard the man! I have an empty flask and an empty stomach and I'll not tolerate either condition for very long. Time to do a little playing to my strengths." He turned towards the door and flung it open, no longer concerned with Jehan as he yelled into the bar, "Who's buying the next round?"

~~**~~**~~**~~

Courfeyrac groaned as he slumped over on Combeferre's couch and mumbled something into the pillow his face was now buried in. Combeferre raised an eyebrow and yanked the pillow out from underneath him in such a way as to turn his head towards the room and asked, "What was that?"

Courfeyrac let out another heartfelt groan and rubbed his hand over his face before enunciating, "Well, that was an unalloyed disaster of an evening."

Cradling the pillow to his chest, Combeferre slouched down into his preferred seat on the chair across from the couch, toeing off his shoes so he could put his feet up on the coffee table. "I wouldn't say that. Cosette and Eponine seem like wonderful additions to the group. They're both insightful and intelligent and provide a point of view that has been sorely lacking in what has been, until now, very much a boys' club."

"No, no. I didn't mean the rally, Combeferre. I mean _after_ the rally. At the Musain. That was a disaster."

Combeferre at least had the decency to wince in sympathy. "Well. Yes. I'll agree that that could have gone more smoothly."

Courfeyrac heaved himself up into a sitting position against the arm of the couch and pulled his feet up, ignoring the pointed look Combeferre was giving him as his shoes made contact with the cushions. If the man wanted his shoes off, he could damned well get up and take them off himself. Courfeyrac was too tired and not anywhere near drunk enough to deal with tonight and his feet were just too far away.

Understanding Courfeyrac all too well, Combeferre rolled his eyes and reached over to lift Courfeyrac's legs off the couch and shifted over to sit where they had been. Courfeyrac smiled, leaned back and replaced his feet -- this time onto Combeferre's lap. Combeferre let out a put-upon sigh, but obligingly unlaced Courfeyrac's shoes and placed them on the floor -- all in the name of saving his upholstery, of course.

Just when Combeferre was beginning to think that Courfeyrac had given up on elaborating on his original statement in favor of drifting off to sleep, he finally spoke, "It's clear that Eponine and Grantaire are close. It's equally clear that Cosette and Eponine are closer than close. So, any insult to Grantaire is an insult to them. And Enjolras... Christ, Combeferre, what was wrong with him tonight? I know he has his moods, but he was downright confrontational and that's just not like him -- not when there are new recruits around. He's got more control than that. I know he does. So, what the hell got into him?" 

Combeferre opened his mouth to answer, but Courfeyrac wasn't done. Pushing himself up against the couch arm, Courfeyrac looked Combeferre straight in the eyes and said, "And don't you dare defend him, Combeferre. Apart from that initial incident outside -- probably because of it, actually -- Grantaire was going out of his way to stay out of Enjolras' way. He kept to his side of the bar. He stayed out of our conversation -- and you know that's abnormal for him because usually he jumps right on in whether we want him to or not. But, Enjolras kept jumping on every word he heard come out of Grantaire's mouth whether it had anything to do with us or not. He didn't give the poor man a second's peace all night!" Courfeyrac made a disgusted face and dropped back down against the cushions. "Christ, Enjolras wasn't even drunk."

Combeferre took his time coming up with an answer, finally said simply, "There was nothing from Rebus all day."

Courfeyrac picked his head up just long enough to level Combeferre with a look that clearly said, "You've got to be fucking joking -- _that's_ your answer?" then let it drop back onto the couch.

Combeferre said, "I'm serious. As near as I can tell, that's what made him irritable. Rebus hasn't touched any of his posts that went up after last night. No reblogs. No responses to messages. Nothing."

Raising a hand to rub at his forehead, Courfeyrac said, "Well, _we_ know why that is. She was with us all day!"

"Agreed. But, _Enjolras_ doesn't know that. All he knows is that for the first time in almost four months, Rebus didn't put her own spin on a post he wrote. She didn't reblog it. She didn't 'like' it. She didn't do anything to it. So he wrote another, thought perhaps she'd just missed the first. She ignored that, too. He posted ten things today... and she ignored every single one of them." Combeferre sighed, "It's times like this that I wish we'd told him about Cosette before they met. We could have avoided this entire drama."

Courfeyrac shook his head. "No. I still think we were right to hold that back from him." At a nudge to his foot, Courfeyrac looked up to catch Combeferre's raised eyebrow. He said, "I don't know. Something... something doesn't feel right about all this, Combeferre. The pieces are all in the right place but something just doesn't seem to fit."

When Combeferre nudged him again to continue, Courfeyrac pulled his feet from Combeferre's lap and sat up. He sighed. "You're going to call me a hopeless romantic and ten kinds of a fool, but so be it." He pulled one leg up under him and turned to face Combeferre. "When Enjolras and Rebus interact on tumblr, there's this... I don't know. It's like a blaze of passion between them. Enjolras is incapable of reacting to anything Rebus does part way. It's all or nothing, all the time." 

At Combeferre's nod of encouragement, Courfeyrac said, "You can see it in his eyes every time there's a response to one of his messages or some new tag commentary on one of his posts. It's like a fencing match -- fast and furious and full of clever thrusts and parries and they range all over the issues, each exchange of blows more elegant and intense than the last. You should watch when they catch each other online sometime. It's... it's beautiful. And when it's over, Enjolras is always tired, but win or lose, he's happy and he's determined and he has a million new plans for what he can do better next time." A wicked smile bloomed across his face as he added, "Fuck, it's like watching them have Internet sex. Enjolras just sits around for however long, basking in the afterglow, before putting all those plans into action."

Courfeyrac waited for that to sink in before dropping the coup de grace. "I don't see _any_ of that passion when he talks to Cosette." As Combeferre's eyebrows climbed up into his hairline, Courfeyrac said, "She's brilliant. She's strong. She's fast as hell on her feet, but..."

Combeferre's eyes widened as he understood, "But she isn't Rebus."

"No." Courfeyrac's eyes were sad as he answered. "No, she isn't. Whoever Rebus is, she must know him personally, though. She gets too many of the details right for that not to be true, but still... it's not her."

"So, we're back to square one -- not knowing anything about Rebus except that he or she was smart enough to thoroughly pull the wool over our eyes for almost a month."

Courfeyrac flourished a hand in Combeferre's direction before indulging in a small bow. "Precisely. Well... almost precisely. We know two more things than we knew before, at least." He raised a hand and ticked them off on his fingers, "One. Cosette may not _be_ Rebus, but she knows who is. And two--"

Combeferre reached out and rested his finger on the tip of Courfeyrac's for him. "And two... whoever it is... Enjolras is in love with them and doesn't even realize it." When Courfeyrac nodded, Combeferre echoed his groan from earlier in the evening and dropped his head into his hands, "You were right. This _was_ an unalloyed disaster of an evening." In a completely uncharacteristic moment of vehemence, Combeferre tipped his head back against the couch and said clearly and distinctly, "Well... **Fuck**."

Courfeyrac slumped over next to him and closed his eyes, "Well put, my friend. Couldn't have said it better myself."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letting out a growl of frustration, Enjolras straightened, began pacing the confines of the small kitchen, hands shoved deep into his blonde curls and tugging. "How can I miss speaking with someone I've never actually spoken to? And why would he cut off all contact without even... I don't know -- without even a note? An away message? Just something to let me know..."
> 
> Courfeyrac smiled softly, caught at Enjolras shirt, tugging him close as he paced by, and finished the sentence for him, "...something to let you know he's all right?"
> 
> Enjolras' eyes widened, lips parting on a surprised puff of breath as he slowly nodded... once, twice. He breathed out, "Yes. Exactly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _May 31, 2013:_** Well, everyone... Enjolras finally started talking to me and decided he was ready to be a POV character. *eg* I hope you're ready! ^_~ And thank you, again, to everyone reading and leaving comments! You brighten my life. ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/51829377860/follow-you-follow-me-19845-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

"It's been _seven days_. What the hell is he doing?"

Courfeyrac winced at the sound of Enjolras' laptop slamming shut. Across the table, Combeferre winced right along with him and said, "If he keeps that up, he's going to break it."

Before Courfeyrac could respond, Enjolras stormed in from the other room, aggravation rolling off of him in near-palpable waves. He walked past the two sitting at the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. After staring at the shelves for a minute or two, he closed the door with an irritated huff and turned to repeat the process with the cabinets... and the pantry. When he got to the silverware drawer, that was when Combeferre finally intervened with a polite, "Is there something we can help you find, Enjolras?"

Enjolras slammed the silverware drawer shut and stood beside it for a moment, posture tense, one fist clenched at his side, clearly warring with himself over whether or not to deliver a rude response. Eventually the fist relaxed and he rolled his head back against his shoulders, raising one hand to massage the back of his neck in a desperate attempt to convince those muscles to relax, as well. When he turned back to face his friends he said simply, "No, there's... there's nothing. I just..." He trailed off. His next words emerged quietly, almost plaintively. "I just don't understand."

Courfeyrac pulled out the chair beside him and patted the seat. Enjolras sank down into it, crossing his arms on the table, dropping his head onto them, and looking utterly dejected. Combeferre reached out to take one of his hands at the same time as Courfeyrac reached out to start rubbing soothing circles around his lower back. Their gazes met over Enjolras' head and Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question... what to do.

Ever since that night at the Musain, Rebus had ceased all contact with Enjolras and the SJWs. He wasn't even answering Courfeyrac's messages. Courfeyrac had resorted to trying to get Cosette alone to tell her that he knew who she was -- or more importantly, who she _wasn't_ \-- and ask her to intervene, but Eponine blocked him every time, refusing to let him get anywhere near Cosette without her there, as well. At this point, Courfeyrac almost didn't care who Rebus really was. He just wanted to get him talking to Enjolras, again, because _this_... Jesus fucking Christ, it was just cruel.

Eventually, Combeferre cleared his throat. Enjolras lifted his head at the sound, eyes so hopeful it about broke Courfeyrac's heart. Combeferre tightened his grip on Enjolras' hand and said, "Why don't you tell us what's really bothering you?" As the look on Enjolras' face shifted from hopeful to confused, Combeferre said, "Are you just annoyed because he's ignoring you?"

When Enjolras frowned and opened his mouth to answer, Courfeyrac jumped in with, "Enjolras. Think about it before you speak." When Enjolras turned to look at him, Courfeyrac slid his hand up Enjolras' back to squeeze his shoulder, "I mean it. You have a powerful brain inside that skull of yours. I know. I've seen you use it. The problem is that lately, you haven't been -- using it, I mean. One of your greatest strengths is your ability to analyze a problem, gather your resources and apply them to a solution. Your other greatest strength is your passion. The problem, at least what I think is the problem, is that you're allowing one to trip up the other. You need to stop _re_ acting and start _acting_." He leaned over to touch his forehead to Enjolras' and smiled. "So, don't just answer. Think about it first, then answer. OK?"

And Enjolras did. He got up from the table and returned to the living room, where they could soon hear him beginning to pace and mutter to himself -- a good sign. If he was pacing and muttering, he was finally thinking, again. He would figure it out. Courfeyrac leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face, already exhausted before they'd even begun to tackle the real problem. Combeferre caught the action and said softly, "And you? Are you all right?"

Courfeyrac shrugged, let a bitter laugh slip past his guard. "No. I'm not. I've dreaded this very circumstance for years. And this… it's the worst of all possible scenarios." At Combeferre's confused look, Courfeyrac explained, "It would have been hard enough getting him through his first crush if it had been on a teacher when he was twelve. It would have been harder, but still manageable, on a classmate when he was sixteen. Now that he's twenty-three, it was already going to be nigh impossible... with a real fucking person. This? How can you work through how you feel about someone when you don't even know who they are? This was already a disaster waiting to happen and now that it's falling apart, I don't even know where to start helping him through it."

"You've thought about this a lot, then." Combeferre raised an eyebrow, though his tone had made the words sound more like a statement than a question.

Courfeyrac shrugged. "I've known him longer than you, Combeferre. He's always had a tendency to jump in with both feet, without bothering to look ahead, especially when he saw an injustice being done. He never seemed to care what happened to himself as long as he was able to help someone else. It meant he got his feelings trampled on a lot. It meant he got hurt a lot." He sighed. "I got sick and tired of watching it happen, so I started trying to protect him from it. And it worked. In fact... I'm starting to think it worked a little too well. I shielded him from so much of life when we were growing up that he's got no experience to draw from to deal with things like this."

Eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, Combeferre opened his mouth to respond... and never got a chance. Enjolras had returned. He walked up to the table and braced himself on his hands to lean over the end. He was silent for another moment before saying, "I am annoyed. Yes. That's part of it. I'd come to count on him boosting our signal and now that he isn't, well... it's showing, already. So soon before some of our biggest events of the season, that's inconvenient at best. All this time... all this time, I thought I could trust him. I thought he believed. I thought..." His voice dropped, "I thought he _wanted_ to help." When Enjolras fell silent, Courfeyrac motioned him to continue. He said, "But, more than that... I miss talking to him."

Letting out a growl of frustration, Enjolras straightened, began pacing the confines of the small kitchen, hands shoved deep into his blonde curls and tugging. "How can I miss speaking with someone I've never actually spoken to? And why would he cut off all contact without even... I don't know -- without even a note? An away message? Just something to let me know..."

Courfeyrac smiled softly, caught at Enjolras shirt, tugging him close as he paced by, and finished the sentence for him, "...something to let you know he's all right?"

Enjolras' eyes widened, lips parting on a surprised puff of breath as he slowly nodded... once, twice. He breathed out, "Yes. Exactly." He turned his gaze down to meet Courfeyrac's, "I... What if something happened to him?"

Sensing that tremendous mind about to go down a path that would leave him of no use to anyone, Combeferre jumped in with, "Or what if it's the end of the semester and we have finals fast approaching? What if he's studying and has simply cut the excess frivolity of harassing you on tumblr from his schedule for the time being?"

Enjolras turned to look at Combeferre, slowly nodded, "If he's a student, then I suppose that's possible." He frowned, "Still. If that was the case, then he certainly should have left a note."

Combeferre hid his smile when he caught Courfeyrac rolling his eyes from behind Enjolras' hip. Instead he simply said, "Yes, Enjolras. He should have. And when he does contact you, again, I'm sure you'll tell him so." Arching an eyebrow at Enjolras, Combeferre added, "And if you're done with the melodramatics for the night, can we please turn our attention back to the planning for our next meeting? Rebus isn't the only one with final exams to study for."

~~**~~**~~**~~

Grantaire jerked awake as his phone let out a soft 'ping.' He cursed under his breath as he scrambled to locate it in the tangle of blankets and pillows he'd crawled into sometime around three o'clock this morning. The blare of light from the screen when he finally found it prompted him to emit a low moan and he immediately squeezed his eyes shut.

An exhausted voice piped up from the other side of the bed, just a hint of a whine penetrating the sleep haze in it as Jehan mumbled, "What the hell, R? It's four in the morning!"

Grantaire winced his way out of bed, "I know, I know. Sorry. I forgot to turn the volume off."

Jehan picked his head up off the pillow to blink owlishly at Grantaire in the dim light provided by his phone screen. When he caught the guilty look on Grantaire's face, Jehan reached out a hand to touch his arm, "Tell me that wasn't your tumblr alert." When Grantaire just ducked his head further, letting his wayward curls fall forward to hide his eyes, Jehan sighed and sat up, "I thought we agreed -- no tumblr this week."

Grantaire hunched his shoulders against the look of disappointment he already knew would be on Jehan's face. "I know. I know. I just..."

"You miss him." Jehan reached up, got a firmer grip on Grantaire's arm and tugged him back down onto the bed, then tugged him closer still into the circle of his arms. As Grantaire resettled himself with his head on Jehan's chest, Jehan said, "You didn't miss him three days ago when you got in a shouting match with each other at the Musain which ended in you nearly getting in a fist fight with Bahorel."

Grantaire turned his face into the crook of Jehan's neck to grumble his answer. When Jehan poked him and said he hadn't understood that last, Grantaire turned his face back up and said, distinctly, "Three days ago, he wasn't sending me messages like this." He then held up the phone for Jehan to see Enjolras' latest message to Rebus.

~Please, just answer this to let me know you're all right. I promise I'll stop bothering you if you do.~

Jehan read the message, read it again, then made an irritated noise in the back of his throat that rapidly began to sound like a kettle boiling over. He grabbed the phone out of Grantaire's hand and sat up so quickly that he dislodged Grantaire from his position on his chest and nearly thwacked him in the head with his elbow on the way up. Before Grantaire even had a chance to realize what Jehan was doing, he'd finished doing it, turned off Grantaire's phone and tossed it back to him.

"What... what did you just do?" Grantaire's eyes were huge and horrified as he scrambled to turn the phone back on. 

Jehan just sat there in the glow of the screen, looking vaguely sinister as he crossed his arms over his chest and said quietly, "What I had to do." 

Grantaire finally got tumblr back up and began vehemently cursing when he remembered that tumblr didn't save sent messages. 

Jehan quietly added, "R, this is no good. R... Damn it, _listen to me._ " He grabbed Grantaire by the shoulders and gave him one firm shake. Once he had Grantaire's attention, Jehan said, "We agreed this wasn't good for you." When Grantaire opened his mouth to protest, Jehan shook his head. "We agreed, Grantaire. You said it yourself -- this thing between Enjolras and Rebus isn't real. The person he sent that message to is a figment of your imagination that you created to cater to his every whim. That's not real and it's not healthy. You have to stop using it as a quick and easy fix to be with him. If you want to be close to him, you have to find a way to do it as yourself, not as this Galatea you've breathed life into to satisfy his Pygmalion-esque urges."

Every fiber of Grantaire's body slumped at those words and he grew heavy in Jehan's hold. As Jehan let his friend's body slump against him, Grantaire spoke, quiet and broken. "I can't. I've _tried_. He made up his mind about me months ago -- that he has no use for me. And I know him well enough to know that he doesn't change his mind easily once it's made up."

Jehan pulled Grantaire into a tight hug, gently started rocking him and murmuring reassurances in his ear. As Grantaire calmed, Jehan slipped a finger under his chin to tilt his face up and place a soft, chaste kiss on his lips -- and if those lips tasted mildly of salt, Jehan wasn't one to call attention to it. He said, "Just because a thing is improbable doesn't mean that it is impossible. You're smart. You'll find a way to convince him you're worth the effort -- because you are."

Grantaire had no response for that, too exhausted by the long night spent drinking and now emotionally drained from this discussion on top of it. Jehan resettled them both among the nest of blankets on Grantaire's bed and pulled Grantaire back into the circle of his arms, cradling him close. As Grantaire drifted off to sleep, Jehan pressed another soft kiss into the curls atop his head. He had a sinking feeling about this... that Grantaire was right. After all, how was Grantaire ever going to convince Enjolras that he was worth his while... when he didn't really believe it himself?

~~**~~**~~**~~

Enjolras sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone and quietly cursing the impulse that had driven him awake to send that ridiculous message. It was four in the morning. What sane person would be awake and responding to tumblr messages at four in the morning?

Still, he couldn't help the small swell of hope in his chest, that _this_ would be the message that Rebus finally answered. He'd been messaging Rebus all week, sending asks, sending fanmails, reblogging old posts with new witty arguments, anything he could think of to draw the other out of their silence. Nothing had worked. He was just... gone.

The truly pathetic thing was that Enjolras hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on conversation with Rebus to keep him on track, to keep him at his best. Enjolras hadn't often encountered other people willing to debate policy and issues with him with the tenacity and skill that Rebus had shown. Combeferre could, and often did, but since Combeferre had shifted the bulk of his mental energy into his medical school classes, Enjolras had found that they now agreed on nearly everything. And while that was certainly pleasant, it was more difficult to find the holes in his arguments if Combeferre couldn't be goaded into truly arguing with him. And Courfeyrac... Enjolras snorted. Courfeyrac was useless in an argument. He was clever, certainly, and passionate enough for ten men... but he didn't debate. He employed emotional gambits to achieve the results he desired. And while that was certainly effective -- sometimes even more effective than Enjolras' most well-designed rhetoric and that was a secret Enjolras was taking with him to the grave -- it didn't help Enjolras find the flaws in his arguments, either. 

Rebus... Rebus was an altogether different matter. He was quick, he was bright, he was knowledgeable about _everything_... and he was a gifted orator. Or, well... he was a gifted whatever-the-tumblr-equivalent-to-an-orator-was. And he had no attachment to agreeing with everything Enjolras said. In fact, he seemed positively gleeful about attacking the foundations of whichever argument Enjolras made that struck his fancy to tear apart. It was maddening... but it was the most helpful aggravation Enjolras had ever had, and he thrived on it. He welcomed it. He began to look forward to it, sometimes even tossed out an argument he knew was unsound just to tempt Rebus into jumping on it and tearing it to shreds... because he enjoyed watching the other man's mind work that much.

Enjolras groaned, dropped his head to rest against the screen of his phone. He could kill Courfeyrac, right now, truly he could. The man had an infuriating way of calling Enjolras' attention to feelings he'd been unaware of harboring and would have been just as happy not to ever have to acknowledge. He had a knack for it -- yanking the rug out from under Enjolras' mental feet. And the timing of this realization... Christ, he could have done without it.

But, if there was one thing Enjolras was not, it was a man who engaged in self-denial. It was something he'd always prided himself on -- knowing his own mind. And when you denied your feelings, you denied part of who you were, and preserving that denial wasted energy that could be put to better use elsewhere. Besides, if you weren't intimately acquainted with every inch of the arsenal at your disposal, you could trip over a pile of javelins as you were reaching for the muskets. Enjolras didn't appreciate loose javelins rolling around to trip him up.

…and Rebus had turned out to be one _hell_ of a loose javelin. So, it really was a good thing that Courfeyrac had called Enjolras' attention to him before he impaled himself, but that didn't mean he had to like it, much less tell Courfeyrac that he did. Besides, Courfeyrac was a hopeless romantic. He'd been on the sidelines for most of Enjolras' life, just waiting for his chance to cheer on his first romantic entanglement. Enjolras had been almost sorry to disappoint him for so long, but who had time for romance when there was so much to be done? Who could be so selfish as to put his own carnal needs about the needs of billions of other people? Who could be so arrogant as to think his right to fornicate more important than the right of others to eat or to live without oppression and fear of death? Not Enjolras, that was for certain.

So, it was highly unfortunate that this had happened as it had and with Enjolras entirely unaware of its happening until it was a fully formed presence in his mind... but since it had, Enjolras knew better than to fight it. He'd already proved to his own satisfaction that he was better at what he did with Rebus' input. He'd already proved to his own satisfaction that he was more fulfilled... was happier... with Rebus in his life. Wouldn't it be just his luck if Rebus didn't feel that same connection?

So deep in his introspection was he that when Enjolras' phone buzzed against his forehead, he let out a rather undignified yipe and nearly dropped it. Heart racing in anticipation, he opened the message response and read it through. When he reached the end, his heart dropped into his stomach, leaving him feeling queasy... and more uncertain of anything than he'd been since he was five.

~~**~~**~~**~~

~Roses are red.  
Violets are blue.  
Rebus is gone, now.  
You know what to do.  
Beep!~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that was the problem. Grantaire didn't have conviction in anything -- not in anything that mattered, anyway. He had great conviction for his drink. He had great conviction in knowing the best restaurants, the best gaming halls, the best of whatever it was that would ease the passing time of his existence, no matter what little use that existence was. Yes, he had great conviction in seeing to his comforts... but he had none left whatsoever for his classes, for his future. Deep down inside, Grantaire still doubted whether or not he even deserved one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _June 7, 2013:_** I do apologize for making you wait and I appreciate your patience. On the upside... it's a nice long chapter. ^_^ In this chapter, everyone gets a little drunk and for many of the same reasons, Marius finally comes into play... and certain decisions are made. Enjoy!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/52420059835/follow-you-follow-me-25978-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

Grantaire lifted his glass to Jehan. Jehan lifted his, as well, but pulled it back as Grantaire reached out to clink them together. Eyes narrowing, he asked, "Before I commit, to what exactly are we toasting?"

A soft smile on his face, Grantaire extended his arm further and clinked his glass against Jehan's. Once he had taken a sip, he said, "To good friends who know better than you do what you need."

Jehan's smile in return was radiant and he eagerly took a drink to that toast. Placing the glass carefully down next to him, he reached out and took Grantaire's hand, "And to good friends who watch your back, even when you don't need it."

The pair smiled, lips stretching into perfectly matching grins. They'd been friends a long time, Grantaire and Jean Prouvaire, and the lines between them had grown vague over the years. They looked out for each other. They took care of each other -- even when that care was the last thing one of them wanted or needed. Both were used to being underestimated, undervalued, pushed aside for factors they couldn't control. They'd hurt each other more than once in the beginning, stepping on emotional scars neither had expected to find, nor understood when they did, but they learned. They learned well.

Jehan was built small, like one of the delicate flowers he loved so much. He was not overly tall and had a way of dressing that was uniquely his own and never quite after the fashion of the day. He was a speaker of language, both conversational and poetic. And he was one of the fiercest men Grantaire knew. He was cunning, he was brave, and if you dared cause harm to anyone he claimed as his... then by word or by force, he would end you.

That was how they had met.

Grantaire had found him facing down a group of men intent on harassing a young woman selling flowers on the street. They were plucking buds from her cart, taunting her as they ripped off the petals and scattered the stems. Uncomfortable with the odds, but unwilling to engage unless necessary, Grantaire had edged closer but remained far enough back not to interfere. He'd watched as the young man tried to reason with the small mob, then resorted to heavier threats. The mob of boys had not been amused and had finally attacked when the young man had mentioned calling the police. Grantaire had winced, certainly unwilling to get involved now that the encounter had turned violent, but more than willing to carry out that poor doomed soul's threat to call for help.

And it was a good thing, too. Two people ended up needing medical care that day from injuries inflicted by the group of boys. Neither of them was Jean Prouvaire. Grantaire had been drawn in by the fierce light in the other's eyes as he fought, the way he shifted from gentle to furious in the space of a heartbeat... all over some flowers. Grantaire had approached, introduced himself, offered to help clean up.

Halfway through the clean up, Jehan had caught Grantaire watching him as though trying to figure out exactly to what he had been witness. Jehan blushed, ducked his eyes and, before the question could even be asked, mumbled, "Aikido. I, uh... I watched quite a lot of anime as a child and developed a fascination with the culture and..." He shrugged. "It seemed like a useful skill to have?"

And that was Jean Prouvaire in a nutshell. He had a penchant for picking up unusual or archaic skills just because they were of interest and twisting them into the rhythm of a personality that already marched to the beat of a very different drummer, and though he was deceptively mild-mannered, he was fierce in his protection of his friends. It was fair to say that it was love at first sight between them. They'd tried once, in fact. Jehan still maintained that they could have made it work, but Grantaire... he was too afraid of what the occasional conjoining of their different brands of melancholy could bring them to. For though Jehan was most often a happy individual, like any poet drawn to the great tragedies, he dabbled in a melancholy of his own. Combining that with Grantaire's propensity for drowning his inadequacies in alcohol... those were dark times for them both and Grantaire wouldn't risk Jehan like that. And so they were friends. They were very good friends. They were, perhaps, even a touch codependent, but it worked and this week had been yet another example of why.

Jehan had taken it to mind that Grantaire needed an intervention. Though, Grantaire had to admit, he'd never heard of someone intervening with another to _return_ them to their drinking habits, but again... Jehan still marched to the beat of his own drummer. No, this intervention was not to separate Grantaire from his love of the bottle. It was to separate him from an equally unhealthy love -- one Enjolras.

Grantaire sighed, tipped back the rest of his drink and motioned Musichetta to refill his glass. The week had been harder than anticipated and Jehan had moved in for a time to offer much-needed support and distraction. In the end, Grantaire had grudgingly admitted that Jehan was right. Continuing on a near love affair with Enjolras as Rebus when the man took every opportunity available to distain him as Grantaire wasn't good for him, reaffirmed his lack of self-worth at every harsh word. Jehan was right about that.... but it didn't change how desperately Grantaire missed talking to the man.

There was only one thing for it, then. Turning back to Jehan, Grantaire said, "How do you fancy me as a pre-law major?"

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

Cosette smiled as the man beside her cursed at the gridlock in front of them and then reached out to flip a switch inside the car. A moment later, the interior of the vehicle was awash in red and blue light and cars were scrambling to let them pass. "I don't know why you insisted on coming this way. Papa mentioned this morning that there was a game, tonight."

The man in the driver's seat frowned, flipped on the siren for just long enough to encourage the pickup in front of them to pay attention and move, then deftly began weaving through the traffic to get them off the main road. He mumbled something under his breath that Cosette didn't catch, but based on the light pink color that was all that was visible of his blush through the darkness of his skin, she could guess and so kindly didn't call him on it.

Not one thing that night had gone exactly as it ought, so really, this was just one more SNAFU to add to the pile. It had started when Cosette, Eponine and Gavroche had been at their weekly dinner with Cosette's parents and Eponine had gotten a call from the Musain. The person who usually covered for her on their weekly family dinner nights had found herself ill and needed to go home. After profuse apologies (and a significant amount of cursing for the situation), Eponine had left to go cover the rest of the shift.

It wasn't more than an hour later that she'd called Cosette to come join her, claiming it was an emergency, but refusing to explain any further over the phone. Before Cosette had even had a chance to figure out what to do, her Papa was ushering Gavroche into the den and bribing him with unsavory stories of his younger, less polite company-friendly life. Gavroche didn't question the abrupt change in plans, or being handled as though he were a child who needed looking after. He loved hearing about his 'grandpapa's' exploits and it was only when his 'grandfather' wasn't around that he got to hear those stories, so he wasn't going to do anything that might ruin his chances at hearing them. And while her papa took Gavroche neatly in hand, Cosette's father did the same for her, ushering her into her coat and out the door to drive her to the Musain.

It was almost frightening, sometimes, how well her parents understood each other. Not a word had been spoken between the two men before that plan had been enacted and they had carried it out with nary a fumble or a misstep. Cosette could only hope that someday she and Eponine would know each other half so well. Then again, based on looks that Gavroche threw their way, occasionally... perhaps they already did.

And that was why Cosette's father had acted as he had. The look on her own face had been all he needed to see to know that Eponine needed her -- and in his own way, he loved Eponine as fiercely as he did Cosette. If Eponine needed her, he would ensure that Eponine had her.

Still... the lights and sirens were a bit much. And Eponine was sure to say so when they arrived... as soon as she finished laughing herself sick.

When they arrived at the Musain, Cosette's father moved to unbuckle his seatbelt and she immediately placed a hand over his, "Father. It's all right. Thank you for the ride, but I can handle this."

A frown etched deep lines into her father's face at those words. As always, those permanent worry lines made Cosette want to reach out and hold him. It had always seemed to her as though her father's face was more at home when sad than happy. She'd been frightened of him, at first, when he and Papa had come to take her from her foster home with the Thenardiers, but she'd come to understand in time that it was worry for her and worry for Papa... worry for the entire world, really, that made him so somber. The longer they were together, though, they three, the more he smiled, the more he laughed. But, even so, his face never quite seemed to lose the habit of those early years and as always, Cosette grieved to see that worry on his face. She leaned across the space between them and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, "Really, Father. We'll be all right. I suspect that this emergency has more to do with preventing Eponine from harming one of her customers than it does with preventing one of them from harming her. You know how well she takes care of herself."

Though that reminder of the difficulty of Eponine's life only etched those frown lines deeper, Cosette's father agreed to let her go in on her own, but would accept no argument against him waiting outside until he was certain his help would not be needed. Considering that as much of a victory as she was going to get, Cosette kissed him on the cheek once more and headed inside, already idly wondering if it was Courfeyrac or Grantaire she was going to have to rescue from Eponine's wrath, tonight.

...it was neither.

When Eponine looked up and saw Cosette's form silhouetted in the doorway, her eyes rolled briefly heavenward and Cosette saw her mouth distinctly form the words, "Oh, thank _G-d_ ," before she came around the bar to meet Cosette at the door. She leaned out just long enough to give Cosette's father a thumbs up and a wave to indicate he wasn't needed, then hurried Cosette inside. She was so harried, she didn't even comment on the still flashing lights.

Cosette scanned the bar again, thinking that perhaps she'd just missed them on her initial pass, but still didn't see either Courfeyrac or Grantaire. She raised an eyebrow, "All right. I'll bite. I don't see either of your usual troublemakers here. What's the emergency?"

Eponine rolled her eyes and jerked her thumb at the man sitting towards the left side of the bar, resolutely shredding a small pile of cocktail napkins. "Who knew he'd be such a melancholy drunk when alone? I realize it's been a week since 'Rebus' established radio silence and that's clearly thrown him off his game, but... Christ, Cosette, he's only had two and he's already played King of Wishful Thinking and It Must Have Been Love on the jukebox... twice. I'm brewing a pot of coffee for him, but at this point, I doubt it will help." She snorted, "Just... I've called Courfeyrac, but he can't pick him up until he gets out of class at 10 and Combeferre is on clinic duty tonight. Can you just... I don't know. Keep an eye on him for me until Courfeyrac gets here or sends someone to get him?"

Leaning over to brush a soft kiss against Eponine's lips, Cosette smiled. "Of course, I will. I'll even do my best to keep him away from the rest of the Pretty Woman soundtrack."

"You're the best." Eponine offered Cosette one more harassed smile before heading back to the bar to fill the next order of drinks. 

Cosette made her way over to the side of the bar, perched gingerly on a stool beside Eponine's troublemaker of the night and said, softly, "Hey. You all right?"

Enjolras paused in his shredding for a moment and turned just enough to see who it was who had addressed him. His eyes narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again, and Cosette winced when she realized that the poor man was trying to get her face to come into focus. Eventually he said, "Cosette... isn't it?"

The charade had never gone as far as telling Enjolras that she was Rebus and it would be unforgivably cruel -- not to mention poor timing -- to attempt it, now, with Grantaire making himself scarce on tumblr. So, for now, she would remain only Cosette. Cosette smiled, nodding once. Enjolras smiled at her acknowledgement in return, then went back to shredding napkins. Cosette deftly reached out and pulled the few remaining unmolested napkins back out of his reach to prevent him making an even larger mess. He didn't even notice.

They sat in silence for another ten minutes, with only the ripping sound of a napkin occasionally intruding, until Enjolras picked up his glass to take a drink only to find it empty. He waved Eponine over and asked for another. She looked back and forth between he and Cosette for just a moment before taking the glass. When she returned, however, there was a cup of coffee in her hand, not a glass of alcohol. Enjolras frowned, "That's not what I ordered."

Eponine shrugged as she placed it on the bar. "Well, it's all you're going to get, so you can thank me and drink it or you can curse me and not drink it. Honestly, I couldn't care less either way, but if you spill it, you clean it up and if you break the mug, you buy me a new one." When Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, Eponine lifted a finger, shook it in his face, "Those are the rules, Enjolras. Even Grantaire respects me when I cut him off. If he can do it, so can you." Before he had a chance to come up with any more answer than a brief sneer, Eponine had returned to the other end of the bar.

Enjolras stared at the cup of coffee for a moment, then finally sighed and pulled it closer. He took a small sip, shuddered at the bitterness, then gingerly put it down and pushed it back away. Cosette smiled in sympathy. "She likes it strong. She then assumes that anyone she's serving it to in the bar will _need_ it strong... and makes it stronger." She quirked an eyebrow. "And judging by how you look, Enjolras, she's not wrong this time. You look terrible."

Sighing heavily, Enjolras let his head drop down onto his folded arms. "I _feel_ terrible, so I suppose that's par for the course."

Cosette leaned over, rested her elbows on the bar. "I don't suppose you want to talk about whatever's obviously bothering you?" When Enjolras shook his head, Cosette sighed. "No. I suppose not."

Cosette watched Enjolras for another few minutes, giving over to sympathy by the contradiction in terms that made up the SJWs' leader. Sitting there with his head on his arms, looking so tired... so lonely... Enjolras looked so very young. It was deceptive, she knew, and all that delicacy would fall away in a heartbeat if something got him fired up, but in that moment, all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms and cradle him close, the way she would do for Gavroche just a few short years ago. Enjolras would never allow it, of course... but she wanted to, nonetheless. Instead, she decided to do as she had seen his friends do before, the few times he'd overindulged. She lifted her hand, stroked it gently through his soft, golden curls. He sighed, leaned into the touch just a bit.

They sat there like that, quietly, with Cosette giving Enjolras what small comfort he would let her give, until another voice spoke up from behind them, "Ah... I'm so sorry to bother you, miss, but... I believe you're in possession of something that I'm supposed to deliver safely home."

Cosette turned to face the one who had spoken and as she did... dear Lord. The poor boy paled, clutched his keys tightly to his chest and his eyes widened fit to pop right out of his head. He was so flustered, he seemed incapable of stringing any more words together than those he'd already done and he gestured helplessly at Enjolras. Cosette smiled as easy-going a smile as she could manage. It wasn't the first time she'd seen someone struck dumb by her beauty. Her dark skin, blonde hair and blue eyes were exotic enough that she made a striking figure. But, that wasn't news. As far as Cosette was concerned, her beauty was a bankable commodity which garnered her advantages in life which she might not win otherwise. She wasn't above trading on it, she just preferred not to do so in her personal relationships. That was one of the many reasons why she adored Eponine so. Eponine appreciated Cosette's beauty, certainly, but it wasn't the reason Eponine loved her. They'd met when they were girls and Cosette had yet to grow into her exotic looks, had even been somewhat awkward, and Eponine had loved her fiercely even then -- for who she was, not what she looked like.

To give the boy credit, though, he recovered himself quickly and held out his hand. Cosette internally sighed at the thought that he might be about to kiss hers... and found herself pleasantly surprised when he gave it a firm shake, instead. He said, "Forgive me. You must get tired of men staring at you all the time. I just..." He blushed, "I wasn't prepared. Courfeyrac -- my roommate -- he called during his class break and asked me to come get Enjolras for him and..." He trailed off, took a moment to look over at Enjolras, who had resumed his earlier shredding activities. He sighed, "...I think I was expecting someone else to be with him." His blush deepened as he rushed on, as though to himself. "...which makes no sense, whatsoever, Marius, my G-d, get it together." He lifted a hand to smack himself in the forehead and said, "Idiot. If one of the others had been here, Courfeyrac never would have asked me to come."

Cosette took in this babble with a slowly growing smile. By the time the boy trailed off into self-deprecating mumbles, Lord help her, she was finding him almost charming. She reached out a hand to cover his now nervously twisting ones, "Marius." He stopped immediately, gave her his full attention. She smiled, "My name is Cosette. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Even more so since I know that this problem..." She stabbed a finger in Enjolras' direction, "...is about to become _your_ problem instead of mine."

The smile Marius gave her then... it was dazzling. He swept her a bow with an almost archaic flourish and said, "I would be happy to relieve you of any problem you would have me relieve you of."

Before Cosette could even open her mouth to laugh at Marius' dramatics, Enjolras, beginning to sober up at last, lifted his head from his arms and scowled at them both. "Well this particular 'problem' has a name and doesn't appreciate being spoken about as if he isn't sitting right here. And Marius, quit making such a fool of yourself. This woman with whom you are so shamelessly flirting is Eponine's girlfriend. You're wasting your breath."

Cosette turned back towards Marius, a smile of apology ready on her lips... only to find it wasn't needed. Marius was wearing a soft smile of his own and was reaching out to pat Enjolras on the shoulder. Even as Enjolras shrugged him off with an irritated grumble, Marius said, "I don't believe that speaking to Cosette could, in any circumstance, be considered a waste of breath, Enjolras. It's only the drink that makes you say so... or so I hope. For if not, then I fear there is no hope for you, at all."

Marius turned back to Cosette and, though Cosette wouldn't have thought it possible, his smile widened further still. "I never dared hope for the pleasure of meeting Eponine's lady-love. Your beloved helped me when I was on my own and had no one else to whom to turn." He gestured around them and said, "She gave me a job even when I had no useful skills of which to speak. She introduced me to Courfeyrac and thus found me a place to live. She helped me build a life for myself and, for that, I can never truly repay her. And she always spoke so very highly of you that I hardly dared dream I would one day have the pleasure of meeting you, in person."

Cosette blinked at Marius, stunned at his sudden eloquence when just a moment before he had been about as verbal as a babbling brook. Perhaps... perhaps it was because she was no longer a potential object of romance. Even so... his casual words were far more extravagant than even Jehan's, and Jehan was a poet. No one spoke like that in casual conversation, anymore. She turned towards Eponine, an eyebrow raised. Eponine merely laughed. "Yes, Cosette. He's always like that. Unless he's tongue-tied over a girl. Something to do with being raised by an old codger and having only classic books for friends."

Though Eponine's smile then was genuine and fond, Cosette couldn't have missed the flash of hurt there even if she'd been blind. Ah... that was it. After she and Cosette had found each other, but not yet found each other romantically, Eponine had spoken often of a boy. He had been born to money and had tossed it all off over a disagreement with his grandfather's politics. Eponine had been enamored of him, possibly even loved him a little... but had never had the courage to tell him so. She had encouraged him to treat her as only a friend and a boss -- a fact for which Cosette found herself quite grateful, as that had given her _her_ chance to tell Eponine how she felt... but it was clear to see that it was a decision that pained her love, still.

So, Cosette helped Marius get Enjolras out to the car, still thinking hard about what she could do to heal that hurt. It proved to be a welcome distraction. They both ignored Enjolras' protestations that he could make it to the car on his own, even valiantly held in the laughter when they let go of him and he nearly fell. When they finally made it to the car, Marius blushed a little over the sorry state of his vehicle, but proudly told her that he had paid for it himself -- with money he had earned on his own. It was a point of pride, Cosette could tell, so she treated it as such, even as she winced at the sound of the rusty hinges squealing as she pulled open the front passenger door.

Once Enjolras had been settled in the passenger seat, Marius took his leave of her. Yes. He took his leave. Cosette nearly laughed again at the stiff formality of it, but she couldn't deny that it was, in many ways, endearing. She couldn't shake the idea that Marius and her Papa would get along famously. He had that same old world charm and manner -- she'd seen her father fall prey to it more than once. When they drove off, Cosette went back inside and draped herself over the bar near Eponine.

Eponine smiled at her, but there was worry there behind her eyes. Cosette hitched herself up on the bar, leaned over and planted a soft kiss to her favorite spot just below and behind Eponine's right ear. Eponine shivered. Their eyes met, dark brown and vibrant blue, and the worry slowly faded from Eponine's eyes. Cosette wanted nothing more than to wipe that worry from Eponine's eyes forever, but how to handle this? It was clear that Eponine still harbored a bit of a crush on Marius. It was equally clear that Marius had a bit of a crush on Cosette. It was Eponine's worst nightmare, fighting to come to pass. But, Cosette was not one to give up what she wanted so easily -- and what she wanted most of all was to see Eponine happy. So, if Eponine wanted something... Cosette would get it for her. It was that simple. And in this particular case, not only was it simple, but it had the potential to be rather enjoyable. All Eponine had seen was Marius' appreciation of Cosette's beauty. Cosette, however, had seen more. There had been a flush of love and admiration in Marius' eyes when he spoke of all Eponine had done for him. There was potential there... so much potential. And the fact that Cosette found him rather awkwardly adorable, as well, certainly didn't hurt. Still, she would wait, would hold off on sharing this brewing thought with Eponine until she had a better feel for the situation, until she was sure. In the meantime... Cosette leaned back over the bar to whisper into Eponine's ear, "I don't believe it would go amiss if we left Gavroche with my fathers for the night..."

Eponine's breath caught and her eyes fluttered shut. When she opened them again, the look within their depths was so fierce and full of need that Cosette's own breath caught.

"OK, everybody! Last fucking call! Get your butts up to the bar and get 'em before I change my mind. We're closing early tonight!" 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

Jehan eyed Grantaire over the rim of his glass of wine, then when he determined that his friend was serious, sighed heavily and put the glass back down. Grantaire watched as Jehan deliberately flexed his fingers to their fullest extent -- a motion that Grantaire recognized as Jehan deliberately attempting not to make fists... and a stretch he was fond of engaging in before practicing his martial arts on someone -- and let out a sigh of his own as he prepared for the lecture he was now certain was coming after his last question.

Jehan clasped his hands in front of him -- another deliberate move Grantaire was familiar with and thus why he edged himself a little further away from Jehan so as to be out of grabbing distance -- and said, very precisely, "And why would you want to do that?"

A helpless shrug was the only response Grantaire could give. Jehan knew damned well why. He wanted... he _needed_ another reason to be close to Enjolras, preferably in a setting that would leave the fearless and fearsome leader of the SJWs in a kinder frame of mind. And Grantaire knew full well which classes Enjolras was TA-ing in the coming semester. He'd told Rebus weeks ago. It would be easy enough to slip into one of them.

Jehan shook his head, "R... you know I only say this because I love you... you're out of your mind." When Grantaire looked up, eyes revealing a bone-deep bruise of hurt, Jehan reached out and took one of his hands in his. "Do you have any interest whatsoever in law?"

Grantaire winced, ducked his gaze, eventually shook his head. "No." The word was a pathetic whisper of sound, barely enough conviction given to it to call it a proper word instead of an exhalation of sound.

And that was the problem. Grantaire didn't have conviction in anything -- not in anything that mattered, anyway. He had great conviction for his drink. He had great conviction in knowing the best restaurants, the best gaming halls, the best of whatever it was that would ease the passing time of his existence, no matter what little use that existence was. Yes, he had great conviction in seeing to his comforts... but he had none left whatsoever for his classes, for his future. Deep down inside, Grantaire still doubted whether or not he even deserved one.

Jehan lightly squeezed Grantaire's hand and said, "Don't you see? That's no better than you chasing after his causes on tumblr and at the Musain. This is just one more attempt to mold yourself into something he'll accept rather than letting him come to appreciate who you already are. Grantaire... you need to pursue the things that _you_ like, that make _you_ happy. Once you've cultivated those things, _they_ are what will draw him to you... if anything will."

Grantaire reacted to those last three words as if he'd been struck, pulling his hand back from Jehan's to grab his drink, cursing as the mild tremor that had started within it caused him to slosh some over the edge of the glass. He gulped the whiskey down, trying to ignore the reverberating impact of those three words. 

How had this obsession even happened? Grantaire's few sexual exploits had been just that -- sexual. And brief. He was friends with many -- he was a good-natured drunk and generous with his parents' money. He was easy-going and charming when he'd a mind for it. He never lacked for companionship and, in truth, he craved it. He craved friends, family... a place to belong. It was the one thing for which he _did_ have conviction. But romance? Romance was something he stayed far, far away from. The idea of giving one person that much control over his own happiness had always frightened he who had so little. So, this... this obsession with Enjolras had come from nowhere, truly blindsiding him. But the more he got to know the man on tumblr, the more he began to understand what made his mind work, why he supported the causes he did, why he didn't support others... Grantaire began to have understand the appeal, began to see why one might decide to give so much of one's self to another. Enjolras had enough conviction for both of them. There was attraction in that -- in being near one's true opposite. And Grantaire knew that that was exactly what he had found in Enjolras -- his perfect opposite.

Looking helplessly up at Jehan, Grantaire said, "But, I've tried everything. I've dabbled in every field offered on this campus." And he had. He'd studied a little of everything -- mathematics, biology, history, languages, women's studies, political science, physics, education, business, and the list went on -- and nothing had been able to hold his focus for more than a semester or two. He was hopeless.

"Not everything, R. You haven't tried... everything." Jehan's voice was quiet, apologetic, when he spoke, and when their gazes locked, Jehan's held all that and more. It was a taboo subject between them, the one emotional scar that Grantaire guarded more fiercely than any other and he couldn't believe that, of all times, Jehan would choose to prod at it, now.

_Frivolous._

_Useless._

_Barely enough passable skill to pursue as a hobby, at that._

_A waste of our time and money._

Grantaire lurched up from the table, spun away from Jehan, fists clenched and eyes squeezed shut. He was dimly aware of Jehan behind him, voice low and intense, speaking more quickly than he ever did, almost tripping over himself to get the words out. Heart pounding and ears ringing with those other remembered words, Grantaire couldn't understand a single one of them.

It wasn't until a warm hand closed on his shoulder that Grantaire came back to himself, looked up to meet Joly's understanding gaze. Musichetta took him from there, sat him back down and pressed a glass of water into his hands. Joly stood with him, stroking a hand through his hair and encouraging him to drink. Before he would, Grantaire's eyes flitted around the Corinthe, desperately looking for Jehan.

He found him standing by their table, talking urgently to Bossuet and gesturing in Grantaire's direction. It was ludicrous. His parents' failed expectations shouldn't still affect him to this extent... but they did. So long as he still took their money, they felt they had a say in his life. The drinking, they tolerated. Having a son go through a "gay phase" was almost trendy in their circles these days, so, for now, they tolerated that, as well. Even his habitual studies that never bore fruition in a degree were an acceptable eccentricity, but this... this they wouldn't tolerate. Uselessness. Idleness. Serving no purpose.

Even if it made him happy.

Even if it was the one and only thing that ever had.

When Jehan caught Grantaire looking, he stepped closer, eyes even more apologetic than before, no doubt regretting bringing it up at all. Grantaire shook his head, offered up a soft smile of his own. It wasn't Jehan's fault, that this had hit him so hard, even if Grantaire suspected he had manipulated the timing to produce an effect he'd been aiming for for years. Well, Grantaire was listening, now.

All unknowingly, in all those months of attempting to pound his passion and his convictions into Grantaire's mind and heart, Enjolras _had_ , in fact, awoken something. Grantaire hadn't even seen it, but, of course, Jehan had. Jehan had always been the more observant of they two and he knew Grantaire better than anyone.

Grantaire stood and stepped away from Joly and Musichetta, put the glass to his lips and drank the water down, almost unconsciously, as his mind raced. He had some money of his own saved. He could register under another name, any other name, anything to keep it out of his official record where his parents would see it... If he was careful, he could do it.

The air around Grantaire contracted, grew thick, and it suddenly seemed as if he was seeing the world through crystal -- broken and refracted into a thousand new shapes and contortions. It didn't make sense, yet. It was a cacophony of light and sound and color and it made him vaguely nauseated to even look at it.

What was he even thinking? This was a fool's errand. A useless, trivial fool's errand and he was a useless, trivial fool for even contemplating it.

...yet it was somehow, suddenly, the most crucial thing in the world.

It was hot. It was far too hot. Grantaire pulled at the collar of his shirt, tried to assuage the feeling of his heart beating up into his throat and choking off his breath. Joly replaced that hand on his shoulder, starting rubbing gentle circles there in an effort to calm him. Musichetta came back with another glass of water which Grantaire took and drained just as gratefully as he had the first.

Jehan knelt down in front of him so as to look up into his eyes, but the understanding in them was too painful, too raw, and Grantaire had to look away. Jehan leaned up and pressed a butterfly kiss to his forehead. "Somehow, we'll make it happen, R. You can have this. It's OK."

They stayed around him like that until he'd calmed, started being able to breathe, once again, without needing reassurance that the air would still be there for the next breath. He drank heavily that night, still unable to wrap his mind around the monumental nature of what he was about to do, but, come morning, stone cold sober... he made a decision.

Come the next semester, Jehan was registered for Drawing I... and the student sitting in class in his place was Grantaire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' messages to Rebus were different, now. They were polite, gentle in a way that Grantaire didn't -- that Grantaire _couldn't_ \-- associate with Enjolras, no matter how hard he tried. They offered glimpses into Enjolras' life, his thoughts. It was as though Grantaire were listening in on one half of a conversation that Enjolras was having with an old friend... an old friend he no longer expected an answer from but with whom he couldn't stop speaking if he tried. Grantaire had only ever heard people talk like that in one setting before.
> 
> ...at a gravestone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _June 15, 2013:_** As always, I appreciate everyone's patience. And for those of you who haven't found it and would like to, part of the reason I took so long with this chapter was that I wrote a 7500 word side story/prequel to FYFM in between working on Chapter 7. It focuses on Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre and is a bit heavily angst-laden... because, well... that's just how I roll, sometimes. ^_~
> 
> I'd also like to offer up a thank you to distractedkat, who quite unintentionally (and then quite purposefully ^_^) helped me untangle an issue I was having with the central piece of this story. The end result of that discussion was that there will be a sequel to FYFM. -.-;;; Enjolras and Grantaire will be sorted by the end of this story, however, so don't worry about that. ^_^
> 
> And... I think that's enough babbling for now. I hope you enjoy Chapter 7!
> 
>  ** _Warning_** : One thing I feel I should probably warn for -- the "R-slur" is used in this chapter and there is a character who is differently-abled who uses it in reference to herself. Grantaire takes great exception to it and they have a serious talk about it, but I felt I should warn for it just in case.
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/53030267725/follow-you-follow-me-32071-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

"Grantaire, dear, have you had a chance to reacquaint yourself with Eleanor? You remember her, I'm sure. You attended school together."

When Grantaire simply continued to give his mother a blank stare for her spate of prompting, she finally huffed and leaned over to hiss into his ear, "The Nemours girl, Grantaire. Do at least _pretend_ to keep up, will you?" When she straightened, she gave the two a bright smile and said, "Why don't you go off and get reacquainted? I'm sure you have much to talk about."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. He'd gone to an exclusive grade school which fed directly into an equally exclusive high school. Grantaire and Eleanor had been classmates since they were five in a grade level which contained no more than thirty students in any given year. He remembered her. Of course, he remembered her. Eleanor had never been pretty. Neither had Grantaire. They had been thrown together at functions such as these and sent off to "get reacquainted" more times than Grantaire cared to count.

The truth, though, was that Grantaire had always felt worse for Eleanor than he did even for himself. At least Grantaire had college as his ticket out. Eleanor... didn't. No one spoke the words, but there was something about Eleanor -- something sweet, something unencumbered. It happened among their families from time to time, from too many years of marrying too close. Though Eleanor was completely capable in many ways, in others... she needed looking after. So, she was always seen as somehow less... as somehow undesirable. The sad thing was that Eleanor was kind, and though she had a wicked streak Grantaire well admired, she never held a grudge for long. She also had the voice of an angel if you could coax her to sing -- not that you ever could within hearing distance of her family. Singing got her noticed and that was something her family most especially didn't want. It was wrong. She deserved better treatment than she got. She always had. Grantaire knocked back his fourth glass of champagne, shrugged off his mother's deepening scowl and offered Eleanor his arm. At least Eleanor never demanded he be anything but what he was. At least Eleanor's company made these ridiculous functions tolerable.

Tonight was the first of many such celebrations of the Christmas season. This one was being hosted by... fuck, Grantaire didn't even remember. Probably the work of some branch of the Du Pont family or another. They always opened the season like this, here at Longwood Gardens, among the ever blooms of the Conservatory. For years, it had made Grantaire itch for a sketchpad just walking in here. But, like Eleanor's singing, Grantaire's art was a secret best not trotted out into the light and he'd forced himself to ignore such impulses until they faded completely.

_Barely enough passable skill to pursue as a hobby, at that._

Wincing away from those poisonous memories, Grantaire hunched down into his tuxedo jacket and increased his pace. Eleanor giggled and began walking faster beside him. Seeing the relief lift her face more and more with each hurried step, Grantaire couldn't help but smile in return. Eyes twinkling, he leaned in close and whispered, "On your mark..."

Eleanor giggled again and whispered back, "Get set..."

Together they whispered, "Go!" and broke into a run. And Grantaire deliberately ignored it when he caught that gleam in his mother's eyes as he and Eleanor ran off -- a gleam which had her immediately turning towards Eleanor's mother, heads bowing together with some new set of nefarious plans to marry off their undesirable children.

Grantaire pulled Eleanor out through the exhibition hall and into the main conservatory, barely noticing the rich blooms and twinkling lights. They raced through the Silver Garden, narrowly avoided Eleanor's elder sister and her fiancé by ducking out and down the Fern Passageway. As they neared the Cascade Garden, Grantaire slowed his steps just enough that they reached it exactly in stride, breathless with relief and the excitement of a good run. This was their own place for these functions. Even Grantaire's mother wasn't stubborn enough to follow them here, so far away from the main party, to this humid, stifling corner of the conservatory for which everyone was always too warmly dressed this time of year to properly enjoy. But, Grantaire had no problem stripping out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeves and Eleanor didn't care if her overly teased hair fell flat... so it was perfect.

Grantaire hitched himself up on one of the rails as Eleanor leaned over to stick her hands in the fall of water beside him. The smell of chlorine was almost stifling, but neither of them cared. It was far preferable to the alternative. After a few moments of comfortable silence, Grantaire pulled his flask from his jacket pocket and took a generous drink before offering it to Eleanor. She wrinkled her nose at him and shook her head. When he answered that by taking another drink, she sighed and said, "I wish you didn't have to do that. You're no fun when you've been drinking."

As Grantaire reluctantly tucked the flask away, he couldn't help thinking that it really was a good thing he had no interest in women, because that tone in Eleanor's voice had always so successfully tied him around her little finger and the bright smile she gave him when he did something of which she approved really shouldn't make his heart beat faster with pride. It really shouldn't. Eleanor went back to playing in the water, tongue caught between her teeth in happy concentration, completely ignoring that she was getting her (no doubt designer) shoes thoroughly wet. For the first time in a long time, Grantaire's hands itched for a sketchbook and charcoals. It was as though since agreeing to Jehan's ridiculous plan, drawing was all he could think about... and that was dangerous.

Eleanor caught him watching and offered him a bright smile. She stood up and came over to lean against his leg where it bounced on the rail and his breath caught when she tucked her head against his shoulder. He forced himself into stillness and as Grantaire relaxed, so did she. Moments later, she smiled and began to softly sing...

"Silent night... Holy night... All is calm, all is bright..."

Grantaire let himself drift on her voice, happy as always that he could at least give her this. When that song rolled away into the distance, she began another, and another, even coaxed him into joining her on Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, delighted as always when he threw in as many raunchy add-in lines as he could remember. When she ran out of songs -- or at least the desire to sing them -- she asked in that simple, unadorned way of hers, "Why don't you ever come home, anymore? I miss you."

Sighing heavily, Grantaire said, "I know you do, Ellie. I just... I..." To his eternal embarrassment, Grantaire's voice choked off there, unwilling to allow him to continue.

Eleanor nodded, her eyes sad. "You hate it here. You hate all of them."

"Hate's a strong word."

"But it's the right one," she shot back, eyes twinkling, grin sassy as hell. 

Grantaire couldn't help but laugh and swept her as much of a bow as he could from his perch on the rail. "Touché, Ellie. Touché."

Before she could ask any other pointed, too clever questions, a buzz from Grantaire's rear pants pocket made him yipe and all but fall off the rail. He caught himself at the last moment, managed to turn it into more of a controlled dismount than a fall, but that didn't stop his face from reddening in embarrassment when Eleanor started to giggle. As he lifted himself back onto the railing, Grantaire said, "Haha, Ellie. Laugh while you can. Someday when _your_ butt buzzes and scares the living hell out of you, I'll be there waiting to laugh at you." As he spoke, Grantaire automatically went through the motions of checking the message... and froze when he saw who it was from.

Enjolras.

Damn it.

Ever since "Rebus" had backed away from talking to him, Enjolras had been sending him messages -- sometimes daily, sometimes as often as hourly. It seemed to vary with his mood and stress level. Grantaire didn't dare tell Jehan, but he'd read them all. At first, they were demanding -- demands for information, for contact, for anything -- culminating in the one that Jehan had so precipitously responded to right before finals. The messages stopped for a few days after that, then resumed, only... they were different. They were polite, gentle in a way that Grantaire didn't -- that Grantaire _couldn't_ \-- associate with Enjolras, no matter how hard he tried. They offered glimpses into Enjolras' life, his thoughts. It was as though Grantaire were listening in on one half of a conversation that Enjolras was having with an old friend... an old friend he no longer expected an answer from but with whom he couldn't stop speaking if he tried. Grantaire had only ever heard people talk like that in one setting before.

...at a gravestone.

Turning the screen away from Eleanor, Grantaire opened the message. It read:

~ _I've returned home to New York for the holiday season and, as such, may not be able to post as regularly as I do while at school, nor send you messages as frequently. It is my sincere hope that you have somewhere to spend the season, whether or not you celebrate it, and people whom you care about to spend it with._ ~

~ _...I wish I were among them. --Enjolras_ ~

Grantaire read that message, read it again... and began cursing. The muttered stream of profanities began quietly, then slowly rose in volume and intensity until at last he was all but screaming and Eleanor -- eyes wide in a mixture of awe and horror -- was frantically trying to shush him. He dropped his voice back down to a harsh whisper and finished with, "...fucking _hell_."

He couldn't answer. He _couldn't_. Jehan was right. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Jehan was _right_. It wasn't Grantaire whom Enjolras missed with such passion. It was Rebus. And Rebus... Rebus wasn't real. But he couldn't do nothing. They might be directed at someone who didn't exist, but the pain and loneliness emanating from those lines of text were real enough. Those were the words of someone who needed reassurance... badly. Someone needed to check up on Enjolras, make sure he was all right... but who could Rebus possibly ask to do that?

After a few minutes of thinking -- and ignoring Eleanor's ever more insistent questions -- Grantaire sighed. There was only one person who had the means to check up on Enjolras, the understanding to accept the sudden contact without asking too many questions, and the discretion to keep it a secret.

Courfeyrac.

Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose as he debated the merits of sending that message and finally, tentatively decided it was worth it. He had to know that Enjolras was all right. This vacation was going to be painful enough without that worry hanging over his head. He opened a new fanmail to loveslabourslost and typed:

~ _Look... I realize I kind of dropped off the face of the planet these last two weeks. It's a long story and I just... look, I had my reasons, all right? And this isn't me reestablishing contact. It's just... Enjolras has been sending me messages and they're, well... increasingly lovelorn. I can't-- look. I can't respond to him. I really can't. And I don't want him to know that I've messaged you. But... is he all right? Because it seems like he's not all right... and I'm worried. I realize this is presumptuous to ask and probably puts you in all kinds of an awkward position, but... Would you check up on him? Let me know if he's OK? I'd appreciate it. --Rebus_ ~ And then he waited.

After what seemed like a lifetime -- but proved to be no more than ten minutes, according to the clock on Grantaire's phone -- he received a message in response.

~ _It's good to know you're OK, Rebus. We've all been worried. It's too late to call tonight, but I promise I'll check up on him in the morning. And don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. ^_~ --loveslabourswon_ ~

Too late to call? It was barely eight and Enjolras had messaged him only thirty minutes ago. Still, though Grantaire chafed at being told to wait, he sent nothing but a brief thank you in response. Don't look a gift Courfeyrac in the mouth. He was probably busy with his own holiday family stuff and couldn't get away to make the phone call. Grantaire could wait until morning. He could. Turning back to Eleanor, Grantaire said, "What do you say to getting the fuck out of here?"

Eleanor smiled, cheeks creasing into little dimples as she answered, "Will you tell me about the boy who's got you all hot and bothered, if we do?" When Grantaire spluttered that there was no boy to tell about, she rolled her eyes and said, "I may be retarded, Grantaire, but even I'm not that stupid. What else could make you blush and go all dewy-eyed like that?"

Grantaire froze, slowly turned back towards Eleanor and grabbed her hands in his. When he spoke, he was impressed that his voice didn't shake and didn't come out as a yell. Instead it was deceptively quiet and full of thunder, "Ellie... where did you hear that word?"

"What, dewy-eyed? I don't know. A movie, I think." 

The tone was innocent enough, but the way Eleanor immediately ducked her eyes to avoid meeting his gaze told Grantaire that she knew damned well which word he'd meant. He chucked a finger under her chin and said, "You're not retarded, Ellie. And I'll happily introduce my fists to the face of anyone who says otherwise -- your parents and prissy-prig sister included. You hear me?"

Eleanor sighed, then reached out to cup Grantaire's face in her hands and brush her lips briefly against his. When she leaned back, her eyes were full of more world-weary knowledge than anyone in that far distant ballroom would ever have given her credit for or believed she possessed. She said softly, "I know what I am, Grantaire. I'm ugly. I'm a retard. Who cares who said it? It's true." When Grantaire opened his mouth to argue, she covered it with her hand. "I mean... the only one of _them_ who matters is you, so as long as it's not you saying it, I don't care. I don't. It's just sounds. So... It's OK."

Grantaire pulled her into a tight hug and fought off a sudden spate of tears. Eleanor was braver than he could ever hope to be and she had so many more disadvantages. It really wasn't fair. She deserved better. And Grantaire knew firsthand how badly those words-that-were-just-sounds could wound. He'd fielded more than his fair share, too... and from the people whose words should have mattered most.

Eventually, Eleanor poked him in the shoulder and said quietly, "You were saying something about getting out of here, homo?"

Grantaire jerked back in surprise but relaxed when he saw the humor in Eleanor's eyes. When he murmured quietly, "Just sounds, huh?" she nodded. He leaned in closer and said, "Well, then, if it's all the same, I prefer 'fairy'." He winked, "Sounds better and I could even dress the part if I wanted."

Deliberately turning off his phone to avoid any other potential interruptions, Grantaire offered Eleanor his arm and led her back to the main conservatory to pick up their coats. As they walked, he started talking, "So, what do you know about tumblr...?"

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

The front door to the Musain slammed open and those inside jerked around to see a lanky figure silhouetted in the doorway just long enough to strike a dramatic pose and yell, "Honey, I'm home!" before ambling in and draping itself over the bar. Grantaire beamed up at Eponine as he did so and said sweetly, "Eponine. Sweetheart. Love of my life. Provider of that sweet elixir which keeps my blood pumping. Have I told you lately how very dear you are to me? Have I told you lately that you are the light at the end of the very dark tunnel that is my life? Have I--?"

Before Grantaire could even get that last sentence out, Eponine had plunked a triple of whisky on the bar in front of him. Her eyebrows climbed up into her hairline as she lifted an imperious finger to point Grantaire to his usual table in the corner. When he hesitated to go, she narrowed her eyes and said, "Good G-d, Grantaire. Get the first one in you and get whatever this is the fuck out of your system before you come back for another." As Grantaire lifted his drink to cradle it close and scoot away from the bar, he overheard her mutter, "Christ, what is _wrong_ with everyone tonight?"

Once Grantaire was settled in at his usual table, Joly and Bossuet joined him, sharing glad greetings and rounds of cheers at their reunion. And it wasn't until his friends settled in around him and started a leisurely rehash of what he'd missed while home over break that Grantaire realized exactly how tense he'd been until that moment. The rest of his 'vacation' had been no better than the start of it. He'd spent more time with Eleanor than with his family -- something which had thrilled his and Eleanor's mothers to no end and, in the end, only put added pressure on them both -- but that endless go-round of being under his parents' intense scrutiny at social functions and being virtually invisible at all other times had started to weigh on him very heavily by the time vacation was over.

Add to that the fact that the longer Grantaire was home, the harder it was to hide his anticipation of that one class he and Jehan were pulling the switch on... and it was a wonder he hadn't given himself an ulcer. He could think of little else, had even caught himself scribbling on cocktail napkins at some of the later events, in spite of his best intentions. Ellie had been entranced, had insisted on keeping all of his scribbles -- mostly of her -- and encouraged him to scribble more. But, he didn't dare. He really didn't dare. Besides... they weren't any good. They really weren't. This was going to end up a waste of his time because he'd never make it past this first level drawing class. Still... Jehan was right. He had to try.

_Barely enough passable skill to pursue as a hobby, at that._

It wasn't until someone let out a low whistle beside him that Grantaire realized that his idle thoughts had combined with his itching fingers to doodle on yet another cocktail napkin. Long-held instincts won out over common sense and he crumpled it into his hand and jerked it out of sight before looking up. 

Courfeyrac stood across the table, beer bottle in hand, looking like he'd had more than his fair share, already. He nodded towards the napkin whose folds were just peaking out from between the gaps in Grantaire's fingers. "Didn't know you did that."

"I don't." The answer was so curt as to be bordering on rude and Grantaire winced at himself. He repeated himself, more calmly this time, "I don't. It was just... doodling. You know. Nothing serious."

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow and leaned forward to try to pry the napkin loose from Grantaire's hand. When that proved too difficult a task for a fairly inebriated man to accomplish, he sighed dramatically and said, "I just wanted to see it. She's cute. Who is she?"

With every word, Courfeyrac got louder and louder, and he was starting to draw Eponine's scowling attention. Grantaire leaned closer and said, "Jesus Christ, Courfeyrac, shut _up_." At the pout he received in return for that admonition, Grantaire rolled his eyes and said, "If I promise to show you, will you sit down and be quiet? It's barely 7. I don't want to get kicked out so early on my first night back. How long have you been here, anyway? You're already drunk off your ass."

Courfeyrac sat down, a smirk painted securely on his face as he shrugged and gestured helplessly to his lips, then made a locking motion near them and pretended to throw away the key. Grantaire couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. Right. Sit down and be quiet. Trust Courfeyrac to be as big a pain in the rear as he could be, even when drunk. At least that was a quality that Grantaire could admire. In answer, he crumpled the napkin further and threw it at Courfeyrac's head. 

It never connected.

A hand reached out and snatched the napkin from the air right before it would have collided with Courfeyrac's head. Grantaire lunged after it, but wasn't fast enough to prevent a newly arrived Jehan from smoothing it out and oohing and aahing over it. When Jehan raised his gaze to catch Grantaire's, he said simply, "I've only met her the once, but I think you captured her essence pretty well, R." His smile slid into a smirk. "Good to see you haven't been wasting time getting back to practicing, either."

Grantaire whimpered as Jehan handed the napkin off to Courfeyrac and settled into the seat between they two. The others immediately crowded around to get a better look. Grantaire buried his head in his arms and refused to look at any of them. Jehan leaned over and gently kissed his temple, his voice a quiet murmur as he spoke. "Sorry, love. I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have teased you in public like that. Not about this. Not yet. Not when I take it your visit home was as wretched as ever and has you securely tied up in knots like usual... yes?"

Grantaire lifted his head just enough to pin Jehan with a stare that clearly said, "Drop it." When Jehan lifted his hands as though in surrender, Grantaire nudged him under the table with his foot and offered him a watered down grin and changed the subject, deliberately shifting the focus away from himself. "So, how was Paris? Seduce any hot Parisians with your poetry? And how are your parents?"

Jehan laughed, leaned back in his chair to stretch his legs out in front of him and said, "Lovely, as always -- it was glorious to get away for a while. My feet were positively burning from having been stuck to this city for so long and I've always loved Paris. I'm glad that's where my parents were when I called. This was much more relaxing than the time I caught up with them in Yakutia. It's way too damned cold up there, if you ask me."

Grantaire laughed in return. Unless Jehan had a pressing reason not to, when vacations called, no matter how briefly, he or his parents would find a way to get him to wherever they were at the time. And just as they'd been for most of his childhood, his parents were still very much gypsies. They never stayed long in one place and they'd raised Jehan to be a student of the world rather than any one particular school or culture. Still, they had a special attachment to the French and returned there over and over. In a way, Paris was more home to Jehan than America could ever be. No matter where he was, though, just like his parents, Jehan was never happy when stuck in one place for too long... and Grantaire was all too well aware that the only reason Jehan had stayed so long in this particular place was because Grantaire needed him. It was humbling. To dispel the surge of melancholy that thought always brought along with it, Grantaire nudged Jehan and said, "And your parents?"

Jehan smiled. "My parents are wonderful, as usual. My grandmother showed up with her latest conquest the week before I returned, as well. It was a regular family reunion on the banks of the Seine, R. You'd have love it. Between you and me, though, I think Mammy's still surprised that my parents are still together. She kept muttering something about not believing that neither of them had gotten bored yet." 

Grantaire snorted out a laugh at that. Jehan's family "reunions" were much more fun and far less stress inducing than his own, and since they had a very fluid idea of what constituted "family," Grantaire had found himself dragged into them whenever they occurred close by. Between his grandmother's lovers -- scattered around the globe in every known port of call -- and his parents' open marriage, Jehan had "family" in just about every major city on Earth and quite a few less major ones, as well -- hippies and gypsies, every one of them. 

Jehan waggled his eyebrows. "And as for the hot Parisians... the running tally when I left was fourteen and I'd accounted for at least four of them."

"At _least_ four? Aren't you sure?" Joly looked mortified as he spoke the words. Courfeyrac had left off staring at Grantaire's doodle in favor of staring at Jehan. He looked like he'd like to start kowtowing. Grantaire understood. Even given the circumstances of their first meeting, Jehan was usually so _meek_ \-- he collected flowers, pictures of kittens and was prone to dressing in grandma sweaters whenever the weather turned cold, for goodness' sake -- that it was hard to remember, sometimes, that he had this hiding inside him, as well.

Jehan offered up a sheepish grin at the aghast looks on Joly and Courfeyrac's faces. "Well... the fifth and sixth were debatable. Mammy and I were having a bit of a contest over a pair of gorgeous brunettes -- seriously, they were... I could write sonnets. I _did_ write sonnets. Four of them right there on that bridge. Skin of darkest mahogany, eyes of deepest black, hair that shone in the lamplight..." His eyes became distant for a moment as he lost himself in memory. After a moment, he shook himself back awake and said, "It was without doubt my poetry that entranced them over, and that should have settled the competition right there... but it turned out they only preferred other women and ended up going off with Mammy in spite of all my hard work." He sighed dramatically.

Before he could say anything further, however, Courfeyrac interrupted him by choking on his latest swallow of beer. Jehan whipped around to face him just in time for Courfeyrac to splutter out, "Wait... you? With a woman? With two women? You do that?"

Jehan and Grantaire looked at each other, then back at Courfeyrac. At the completely poleaxed expression on his face, both laughed. Courfeyrac blushed wildly, and ducked his head, busying himself with his bottle. To be fair, Grantaire could commiserate -- that had caught him by surprise in the beginning, too. Eventually Jehan wiped his eyes free of the laughter-induced tears and said, "Oh, boy. I'm sorry, Courfeyrac. It's just... I get that a lot. Eventually, you just have to laugh about it and learn to enjoy being so hard to label." Eyes twinkling, he said, "In short? Yes. I do that." He draped an arm over Grantaire's shoulders and said sweetly, "And I also do this." Ignoring Grantaire's protests that Jehan most certainly did _not_ do "this" anymore, Jehan finished with a soft, "Is that a problem?"

Courfeyrac quickly shook his head and said, "No! I, uh... do that, too." His blush deepened. "Both, that is. I do--" He hung his head and groaned. "I'm just sticking my foot farther and farther down my throat, here, aren't I?"

Someone else stepped up to the table, then, and clapped Courfeyrac on the back. "Clearly. And clearly Eponine was right when she called me to come retrieve you. You've had enough. How did you manage that by 7:30 and all by yourself, anyway? How long have you been back?"

"Long enough." Courfeyrac lifted his bottle of beer and drained it before standing and grabbing Combeferre's face and planting sloppy kisses on both cheeks. When he leaned back, he smiled a soft, genuine smile, "Missed you."

Combeferre smiled back and pulled Courfeyrac into a brief hug before draping Courfeyrac's arm over his shoulders in preparation of guiding him out of the Musain. "I missed you, too. Now, why don't we work on getting you outside and to the bus stop?"

Already thrown off his public stride by that revelation of Jehan's vacation exploits and not yet resettled, Joly's eyes widened in horror. Before any could think to shush him, he blurted out, "You're going to take him home on the bus? When he's this inebriated? What if he throws up? It might get on someone! Someone might _sit_ in it. The entire city could become ill!"

Even as Grantaire and Jehan rolled their eyes, Combeferre's eyes widened. Joly was on his best behavior during classes and did his best not to let his neuroses show in that professional atmosphere. As such, Combeferre had never seen him in one of these irrational panics before. Before any of them could say anything, however, Bossuet simply reached a hand up and patted Joly on the cheek. As those wide eyes turned and slowly focused on Bossuet's dark-skinned face, Bossuet smiled. He said softly, "Not your problem, Joly."

"But--!"

"Not your problem." This time the words were firmer, though no less gentle than before.

"But, what if--!"

"Not. Your. Problem." The third time they were spoken those words brooked no argument. As Joly slumped against Bossuet's hand, Bossuet used it to gently curl Joly into his arms. Once Joly was there, taking in deep breaths to push back the panic, Bossuet said, "And on that note, I think we've had enough for tonight, too." He turned his head downwards to direct his next words towards Joly and, with them, threw Joly's girlfriend under the proverbial bus without even a qualm. "Musichetta said something about closing early tonight so she could get a break before all the college kids flood in this week. Do you want to see if she wants help tidying the place up for the new semester?"

At those words, Joly's head shot up, a distinct gleam in his eyes that his friends knew all too well. He said, "Yes. Yes, that would be... Bossuet, the Corinthe hasn't had a thorough disinfecting in _weeks_. And all those undergrads..." He shuddered. "They have no sense of respect for other people's property. They destroy things and they make _such_ a mess. It's the _least_ we can do to start the place off clean!"

As Joly leapt from his chair to go fetch their coats, Grantaire looked up at Bossuet and smiled. "Well... that's new."

Bossuet's dark skin flushed a dusky pink and he shrugged. "Not really. Just... we've all reached a new understanding. It works even better than the old one. And it helps. Both of them. So..." He shrugged again.

Jehan leaned over to grip Bossuet's hand. "Good for you, then, my friend. Good for you."

Once they'd left, Grantaire turned to explain to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but Combeferre hastily held up a hand. "No. Please don't. I strongly suspect that Courfeyrac is too drunk for that explanation and that I am too sober. It can wait." He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, then said, "Besides, I need to sober this one up as much as I can before Enjolras gets back tonight because doubtless he'll be chomping at the bit to get started on plans for the SJWs for the semester and he won't take kindly to having to wait. We'll be up until all hours getting it all sorted otherwise."

Jehan laughed softly, "Better you than me." After another moment of commiserating silence, Jehan said, "You know... you lot should really think about changing your name. Everyone knows what SJW stands for. It's so... confrontational."

Courfeyrac spoke up from where he'd tucked his head into Combeferre's neck. "I've been saying that for years, haven't I? We should call ourselves the 'Justice Friends!'"

Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose again and explained in such a slow, careful way that they got the idea he'd 'explained' this numerous times before, "And Enjolras has told you for years that he won't tolerate calling us by a name that sounds so much like a superhero conglomerate."

"Then how about the Friends of Justice?"

"That's no better, Courfeyrac."

"The Friends of the Oppressed?" 

" _No_ , Courfeyrac."

"Well, we should be the friends of _something_. The other makes us sound like vigilantes! That's even worse than superheroes."

"The Friends of the Oppressed...?"

Grantaire turned quickly as Jehan murmured those words, a light in his eyes that Grantaire was all too familiar with. "Jehan...?" he said, softly, a warning in his voice.

Jehan began to laugh. All eyes turned to him as that laughter increased in volume. By the time he'd dissolved into giggles, Combeferre looked as though he was ready to flee with Courfeyrac and never return. Grantaire sighed and said, "You'll have to forgive him. He just... he likes these really bad puns. Really bad _French_ puns. That's how I ended up 'R' in the first place... and some day you should ask Lesgle how he ended up 'Bossuet'. Really. It's a show stopper." Grantaire shook his head.

Just then, Jehan looked back up, a fierce light in his eyes as he said, "No, but this is _brilliant_. You can be... Les Amis de l'Abaissés!"

"They can be _what_?" Grantaire couldn't help asking the question, even though he knew he was going to regret it.

Jehan waved his hand expansively, "The Friends of the Oppressed -- or the Friends of the Lowly, the Downtrodden, the Humble. That's what you are, right?" At Combeferre's hesitant nod, Jehan pulled a cocktail napkin over and wrote "Friends of the Oppressed". Underneath that, he wrote "Les Amis de l'Abaissés". Then he looked up and smiled widely at them and explained, "And abaissés, in French, is pronounced just like the letters..." Beneath the last word, he wrote "A-B-C". At the very bottom of the napkin, he then inked the full name in flourished calligraphy -- "Les Amis de l'ABC" -- and offered them a beaming smile as he delivered that punch line.

No one laughed.

No one laughed... but another voice spoke up from behind them to say, "I love it. We'll make changing it item two on the agenda tonight."

Combeferre turned to see a smiling Enjolras hovering at his side. Of course. Because, Enjolras would be early and was just as much a fan of all things French as Jehan. The new name suited him to a tee. Combeferre asked, "What's item one?"

Enjolras scowled at Courfeyrac, then turned on his heel and marched back out the way he'd come. Courfeyrac frowned after him, then finally said quietly, "Me? I'm item number one?"

Combeferre sighed heavily and hung his head. "As I said... getting you functional is. Come on. We'll have the meeting at my place, tonight. I stocked the refrigerator when I returned this afternoon and, in anticipation of just such an event, I purchased plenty of that Propel flavor you like." He sniffed in Courfeyrac's direction and rolled his eyes, "And perhaps a hot shower wouldn't go amiss, either."

They said their goodbyes, Courfeyrac still whining about having to work even _before_ classes started and Combeferre good-naturedly shooting down his every argument against such work. Grantaire simply looked at Jehan. Before he could say a word, however, his phone buzzed. Eyes widening, Grantaire pulled it out and checked -- sure enough, there was already a message from Enjolras. It was short and to the point... and it made Grantaire's blood run cold.

~ _I'm back. I trust that you are, as well. No more games, Rebus. This time, I'm going to find you and we're going to talk this out like rational adults. Count on it. --Enjolras_ ~

Jehan's answer when he read it was even shorter and more to the point. He scowled at the phone and said quite vehemently, "The hell you will -- not if _I_ can help it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** For those interested, Longwood Gardens is a real place. It is one of my _favorite_ places. Once the estate of the Du Ponts (They are the closest thing Delaware has to royalty... and yes, they really are as inbred as I made them out to be -- and if Grantaire came from money in the DE/PA area... he was raised right smack in the middle of it.), it is now open to the public as a sprawling garden with miles and miles of trails, both cultivated and wild. It's a little piece of heaven on Earth. They do still host weddings and galas on the grounds and in the Conservatory, as well. And you should _see_ the place done up in lights for the Christmas season. *_* Seriously. Go look it up. *nodnod*
> 
> [Check it out for yourself!](http://www.longwoodgardens.org/ExploreLongwood_1_3_2_4.html) ^_^


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan might look delicate as a rose... but he was as thorny and hardy as one, as well. Prune him back harshly and he flourished all the more under the adversity. Grantaire smiled. He'd told Jehan that once, when deeply into his bottle, and Jehan had been so pleased with the imagery that he'd written it into a poem and gifted Grantaire with the calligraphied final product. Only by the time there was a final product, the verse was no longer about Jehan... it was about Grantaire. He might not be a poet like Jehan, but he could read between the lines as well as if he were -- he'd known Jehan long enough for that. His friend thought Grantaire just as worthy of that metaphor as his own self. Grantaire still wasn't sure he agreed, but he wouldn't deny that every time he passed that framed poem where it hung in his bedroom, it made him smile to think that a man like Jehan thought him worthy of such words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _June 28, 2013:_** My apologies, for taking so long with this chapter. I've had plenty of RL things going on and I confess, my muse deserted me for a bit. I believe she's back, finally, though, or at least is here for a good, long visit.
> 
> This chapter marks the inclusion of the last of Les Amis to make his appearance. He made it into this chapter by the skin of his teeth, and not yet by name, but at least I finally have it sorted where he fits. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/54134464649/follow-you-follow-me-36626-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

This was a disaster. Combeferre sighed as he nudged Courfeyrac back upright on the couch. In spite of Combeferre's efforts to revive and rehydrate him, Courfeyrac seemed determined to wallow in his drunkenness for as long as he could. He was all but useless in this condition and Combeferre couldn't help but wonder what had possessed him to get drunk when he had to have known that Enjolras would have things he would want to accomplish when he returned from break. It wasn't that it was out of character -- Courfeyrac had been known to overindulge for as little a reason as boredom, before, after all -- but it was horrendously poor timing, and managing a drunk Courfeyrac and a riled Enjolras at the same time was more than any one man should ever have to deal with alone.

Sensing a pause in Enjolras' current rant, Combeferre said, "And how, exactly, did the dining hall get added to the list of injustices we are campaigning against this semester?"

Courfeyrac giggled from where he'd once again fallen against Combeferre's shoulder. "Because they're a general menace to the digestive tract and carefully groomed palate?"

Enjolras gave the pair of them a withering look and relaunched himself on the topic at hand -- lack of any variety (and in some cases any option at all) for vegetarian, vegan, kosher -- the list went on -- menus in the dining hall. Compared to some of Enjolras' grand ideals it was small and a bit out of character. On the other hand, it was something local, something personal, a problem for which the SJ-- les Amis de l'ABC -- and good grief, that was a mouthful, wasn't it? -- might actually be able to effect a positive change. At the very least, it was a problem that might get more students involved, might attract them some help in their actions, if Enjolras could let go of enough control to let new blood in -- Jean Prouvaire, for example.

Jehan had only been to a few of their meetings -- and mostly to keep an eye on the habitual explosions of temper between Enjolras and Grantaire, Combeferre suspected -- but he was astute, he was diplomatic in ways that Enjolras only ever dreamed of being, he looked harmless yet was anything but, he was eloquent and intelligent, and he'd traveled enough of the world that he was familiar with the cultures of far more peoples than the current members of les Amis de l'ABC. He'd be a wonderful recruit to put on this latest project if they could convince him to be involved in a more direct way than he had been so far.

Combeferre sighed. Likely, enticing Jehan to become more involved with them was nothing but a pipe dream so long as Grantaire and Enjolras were at each other's throats. Really, someone ought to put leashes on them and drag them away from each other when they got riled like that. The moment he had that thought, though, Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. Because, that wasn't precisely the problem, was it? Jehan had proven more than once that he was capable of doing exactly that for Grantaire, diverting him so smoothly away from Enjolras that the poor man didn't even realize he'd been diverted half the time. No. The one who was falling down on the job, here, was Combeferre. He needed to get a better grip on Enjolras. But, how? Perhaps the next time Courfeyrac joined Grantaire, Jehan and their friends at the Musain, he should tag along. Then Combeferre could ask Jehan his questions directly and perhaps find a new ally in the process.

Courfeyrac chose that moment to tip over the rest of the way into Combeferre's lap and start quietly snoring. Combeferre froze. Happening, as it had, in a moment of lull between Enjolras' speechmaking and grandstanding, it immediately drew both men's attention. As Enjolras scowled down at Courfeyrac, Combeferre couldn't help the protective arm he draped over him in response. Enjolras frowned harder at that but didn't call him on it. He merely dropped down into the armchair across from the couch and threw his hands in the air. "Why do I even bother? You're both all but useless, tonight."

Sighing heavily, Combeferre said, "It's late, Enjolras, even for you, and we're all weary from the day's journeys. Perhaps it would be best to leave off the rest of the discussion until after tomorrow's classes."

Though he held it for as long as he could, eventually, Enjolras' cloudy expression broke to reveal one just as exhausted as Courfeyrac's underneath. He lifted his hands to rub at his temples. "You're right. Of course, you're right. My apologies, my friend. That was unkind of me."

Combeferre waited. He knew Enjolras' every mood, his every shift in body language. In spite of his words, this discussion wasn't over. There was something more to be said. Combeferre could feel it. Quietly, he prodded, "Was there something else?"

It took Enjolras several moments of deep thought and even more of rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair before he answered. And when he did, Combeferre immediately wished he hadn't pushed. The answer was one word.

"Rebus."

Oh, no. Combeferre closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Courfeyrac was much better at dealing with this particular brand of Enjolras-issue than he. Aiming for as neutral a query as he could, Combeferre said, "What about Rebus?"

"I want him back. Combeferre, it's been two months of nothing. Just... nothing." Enjolras repeated himself, quietly but with conviction. "I want him back."

"I know you do, Enjolras. I know you do." Combeferre reached his hand out and when Enjolras reached out in turn, Combeferre gripped his hand and held it tightly. "Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about it. Rebus isn't responding to messages from any of us at this point and you can't force someone to interact with you if they don't wish to do so. Whatever Rebus' reasons are for breaking off contact, for now, all you can do is accept them and move on as best you can. Maybe someday things will change... but that day isn't today. So rather than pining over what you can't have, focus on affecting the things you can." Letting go of Enjolras' hand, Combeferre patted the notepad he'd been jotting down ideas on earlier. "This idea about the dining hall menu, for example. It's a good one. You should focus your energies on that and on your classes. With any luck, the rest will resolve itself."

Thankfully, Enjolras conceded that Combeferre was right about needing to refocus -- or he was just too tired to argue the point further. Either way, he hadn't given up -- Combeferre could see it in his eyes -- but at least the issue was tabled for now. After another moment of silence, Courfeyrac turned over in his sleep, turning his face into Combeferre's stomach and loosely working an arm around his waist. When Combeferre stiffened and blushed at that move, Enjolras finally smiled. He nodded towards Courfeyrac and said, "You're also right that it's late, my friend. And since you're a little tied up at the moment, I'll see myself out." He patted Combeferre's shoulder and ran a gentle hand through Courfeyrac's hair as he passed but said nothing else. There was nothing more to say.

As soon as the door closed behind Enjolras, Combeferre turned back to Courfeyrac, trying to determine how he could extricate himself from this highly undignified embrace without waking the one sleeping so deeply upon him. Only... when he looked down, it was to discover that Courfeyrac wasn't asleep any longer. He had one eye open and was blearily staring at Combeferre. Combeferre relaxed at that and said, softly, "How long have you been awake?"

Courfeyrac slowly pushed himself upright, rubbed at his eyes and resettled himself at the opposite end of the couch. Combeferre firmly told himself that he wasn't disappointed, that he didn't feel a pang of regret at no longer having his friend sprawled across his lap like an overly content cat. And he didn't. Not really.

Courfeyrac sighed. "Long enough. Combeferre... there's something I need to tell you." Courfeyrac rubbed his hands vigorously over his face, leaving behind a grimace when he dropped those hands back into his lap. "It's about Rebus."

By the time Courfeyrac finished with his tale, Combeferre was the one rubbing his hands over his face and fighting a grimace. "You've been in contact with him all through break? Courfeyrac, why didn't you tell me?"

Courfeyrac shrugged, stood up to locate his shoes. "I had other things on my mind." He bent over to retrieve one shoe from beneath the dining room table and his next words were muffled, indistinct. "And I wasn't even sure I was going to tell you. He put an awful lot of trust in me by contacting me, at all. I didn't want to betray that trust. I..." He stood, shoes in hand, turned back towards Combeferre and frowned. "This is going to sound stupid, but I'm finding myself a little protective of him. Enjolras has a way of steamrolling everyone he comes into contact with. Rebus is smart, versatile in his thinking, and he refuses to be pinned down and labeled, even by Enjolras. I don't want to see him lose that if Enjolras were to ever really get his hands on him."

Combeferre sat in silence as Courfeyrac sat back down to pull on and tie his shoes. Finally, he said, "Not you, too, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac's head went up like a shot, sleep-mussed curls tumbling over into startled eyes. "Not me, what?" He frowned, tried to work out Combeferre's meaning. After a moment, his eyes widened further and he stuttered out, "You think I...? That I...? Oh my G-d, Combeferre. No. I don't have feelings for Rebus. I just..." He sighed, shook his head, then returned to tying his shoes in silence.

Combeferre winced. He'd known where this was coming from even as Courfeyrac was puzzling it out, himself. He shouldn't have pushed, not at this particular sore spot. He reached over and threaded his hand into the short curls at the base of Courfeyrac's skull, gently massaging his neck. Courfeyrac never finished that sentence. He didn't have to. They both knew what he wasn't saying -- that Courfeyrac knew firsthand how deeply loving Enjolras could destroy someone if they weren't careful.

Courfeyrac reached back, rested his hand against Combeferre's for a moment then shook off that hand and stood. "I gotta go. For some ungodly reason, I decided to register for an 8 o'clock on Mondays and it's going to be hard enough to get up as it is."

Smiling, Combeferre stood to get Courfeyrac's coat. "Would you like a wake up call when I get up?"

A snort. "You must be fucking joking. You get up at an even more ungodly hour than that!"

"5 o'clock is not ungodly. It's a perfectly good time to wake up and an even better time to get any last minute work done."

Courfeyrac stared at him as though to say, "You have clearly gone completely 'round the bend and I'm not indulging you in this insanity any further." What he said out loud, however, was this, "Thanks, but I think I've got this, Combeferre." The tone of those words was bone dry.

"I am just trying to be helpful."

Eyes dancing, Courfeyrac snorted. "Helpful, my ass. If I get a phone call from you at five, I'm going to be pissed."

Combeferre simply smiled and held out his coat. "Duly noted."

"I mean that."

"Also duly noted."

"No, really, 'Ferre. I need my sleep."

"So you've said."

"I'm going to kill you."

Combeferre just laughed as he waved Courfeyrac out the door. Just before Courfeyrac turned to head down the stairs, Combeferre leaned out the door and said, "You can try." Courfeyrac's outraged cry at that was enough to keep him smiling through the rest of the evening... an on into the morning when he got up -- precisely at 4:59 -- in just enough time to make one phone call. After all, it wouldn't do for Courfeyrac to be late to his first day of classes, would it? He certainly wouldn't want that on his conscience.

* * *

~~**~~**~~

* * *

"People are going to talk if you keep inviting me to spend the night, R."

Grantaire made a face in the mirror at Jehan, then leaned down to spit out his toothpaste. As he rinsed out his mouth he made a few more faces for good measure. Jehan merely laughed. Once he'd run a pick haphazardly through his drying curls, Grantaire turned from the mirror to face his friend, grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him forwards, and planted a firm kiss on his lips. "Let them talk. I'm glad you stayed."

Jehan pushed off those thanks with a nonchalant wave of his hand, "Please. You know I don't mind. You know I'll be here whenever you need me. You know I wasn't leaving you alone last night."

"Still," Grantaire said as he caught Jehan's waving hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, "You didn't have to and I appreciate it. I appreciate _you_. You're a good friend, Jean Prouvaire." He offered Jehan a sheepish smile. "Better than I deserve, I sometimes think."

Gazes met and held, words unspoken passed and smiles were shared. After a breathless moment, Jehan's smile widened and he shoved playfully at Grantaire's shoulder, then followed him out of the bathroom to the front door. "You're stalling. While I appreciate the reasons why, I'll also not have you putting a black mark on my school record, much less forming a habit of it. I got enough push back from my advisor when he saw my schedule for the spring semester."

Grantaire froze in the act of shrugging into his coat. He turned back to face Jehan, his voice small, uncertain, when he spoke. "Was he very angry? I'd not have you get into trouble on my account."

Planting another soft kiss on Grantaire's forehead, Jehan said simply, "Not your problem, R. Not his, either. Don't worry about it."

Reluctant though Grantaire was to let the matter drop, he knew better than to keep pushing when Jehan got that tone in his voice. Jehan might look delicate as a rose... but he was as thorny and hardy as one, as well. Prune him back harshly and he flourished all the more under the adversity. Grantaire smiled. He'd told Jehan that once, when deeply into his bottle, and Jehan had been so pleased with the imagery that he'd written it into a poem and gifted Grantaire with the calligraphied final product. Only by the time there was a final product, the verse was no longer about Jehan... it was about Grantaire. He might not be a poet like Jehan, but he could read between the lines as well as if he were -- he'd known Jehan long enough for that. His friend thought Grantaire just as worthy of that metaphor as his own self. Grantaire still wasn't sure he agreed, but he wouldn't deny that every time he passed that framed poem where it hung in his bedroom, it made him smile to think that a man like Jehan thought him worthy of such words.

Squaring his shoulders, Grantaire reminded himself that Jehan thought him worthy of this, as well. He thought Grantaire worthy of risking his academic career. He thought Grantaire worthy of committing academic dishonesty. He thought Grantaire worthy of the right to pursue a long lost dream. Secretly, Grantaire thought Jehan thought him worthy of far too much, but he was smart enough to never express that sentiment aloud -- especially in a place where Jehan might overhear. So, neither would he speak it today. He would leave his apartment. He would go to class. He would draw. And they would see what would come of it when something had.

* * *

~~**~~**~~

* * *

Grantaire hunched his shoulders, defensively forming a cage with his body around the paper in front of him. He felt so exposed, as though at any moment someone might realize he wasn't who he claimed to be and didn't belong -- as though at any given moment, his parents might suddenly appear from behind a desk and demand an explanation for his activities. It made him twitchy. It made him ache for a bottle. It made him want to run and run and run and never look back. But, for some odd reason, his professor seemed to believe in him. Grantaire didn't know why, but he didn't want to contradict the man and thus alienate him. He had enough enemies in this class, already.

Grantaire ducked his head, further, curled a little closer over his paper as some of his more curious classmates edged over to see what he was doing this time. He shot a few glares at the more persistent onlookers, and turned back to his drawing. It was nothing, really. It was a still life -- a collection of scattered objects on a desk. Objects brought in by students. Simple objects. A ruler. A pencil. A rubber ball. A leaf.

...a perfectly dried rose.

Grantaire's tablemates had cursed him for his addition to the collection, but he hadn't cared. The rose had been the real Jean Prouvaire's contribution to Grantaire's current efforts. It had made Grantaire smile -- truly smile -- and so few things did, right now, that it was well worth risking his classmates' ire in adding it to the pile of otherwise overly simple items on the table.

Besides, Grantaire wasn't in this class for an easy 'A'. He was in it to challenge himself, to see if there was any merit in risking the pursuit of this course of study. After only two weeks, he'd already learned that that attitude was not the case for the vast majority of his classmates. Half were freshman attempting to get their art requirement out of the way. Half were seniors who'd put off getting their art requirement out of the way. A very precious few were like Grantaire, seeing this course as a gateway to all those which lay beyond it. But, it didn't matter. Grantaire didn't care. He wasn't in this class to make friends -- in fact, the fewer he made, the better. Lying about one's identity was no basis for a friendship. Grantaire had already learned that the hard way.

"I thought we were supposed to be drawing what was on the table. What the heck is that?"

The voice was hard, biting, full of bitter jealousy, and it set Grantaire's teeth immediately on edge. He curled tighter over his drawing, ducking his head until only the barest amount of light got through to illuminate the page. That voice had had plenty to say to him over the last two weeks -- constantly jabbing and picking, taunting and laughing. Grantaire ignored it and its owner as best he could. He had no time for such games. They were judged strictly on their own merits in this class -- not against each other's merits. His own success had no bearing on any other student's and Grantaire didn't often choose to waste his time on those he deemed not worthy of it. This particular bully wasn't.

Until he was.

The man reached out a hand, quicker than Grantaire would have given him credit for, and snatched Grantaire's paper out from the protective circle of his arms. Grantaire reached for it, but he was too late. The bully and his cronies at the other end of the table were turning the paper this way and that, laughing at it and jostling each other in their good humor. Grantaire felt his face flush. _He_ knew his drawings weren't any good. He didn't need his classmates reinforcing that belief. He didn't dare go over, didn't dare try to take it back, but he could listen... and he could hear. The comments were not kind.

"Heh. So which of you chuckleheads brought in the decapitated heads? I don't see those on the table."

"Yeah, maybe he's just seeing things. He sure looks enough like a basketcase."

"Fuck, is this one a boy or a girl? I can't even tell."

"Who cares about that? This one's a retard! You can see it plain as day -- either that or he just sucks so bad at this he makes 'em look that way on accident."

That last set off another round of jeers... and Grantaire saw red. He couldn't do this for himself, but for those he'd drawn on that page? For them, he could do this. He rose from his seat and walked over to the group, held out his hand, and said simply, "Give that back."

When his polite request was met with yet another round of jeers and cruel comments, Grantaire's eyes darkened. He held out his hand yet again. "Give that back."

"Or you'll do what? Kick my ass? Like a pathetic homo like you could even come close."

That last drew the attention of several other students in the class. That wasn't the smartest insult to throw around in a large class like this. An insult like that was statistically bound to hit more than one person in this room. Grantaire wasn't one of them. Of all they could have chosen to prick at him with, his sexuality was the one place where he was least vulnerable, and glad of it. His lips stretched wide into a leering smile... and grew teeth.

Voice dark with disdain and eyes dancing with the pure need to inflict as much pain as was being flung at him right now, Grantaire said, "I wouldn't have to." He had their attention, now. "We're all 'homos,' you see. The only difference between us is that your species of homo will eventually be wiped out by mine. Intelligence wins out over brute strength, any day, my dear neanderthalensis. Now, give this sapiens back what is his before he has to show you to an early extinction."

As the group tried to puzzle out exactly what it was he'd said, Grantaire neatly snatched his now quite rumpled drawing from the ringleader's hand, retrieved Jehan's rose and the remainder of his belongings and relocated to another table far from the ones who had started this nonsense. Those close enough to have heard the exchange, and brave enough to do something about it, started a slow, impressed round of applause as he passed by. Grantaire ignored them, too.

It wasn't until he was seated at his new location, amongst a group of wide-eyed freshmen, that he let himself look down at the drawing which had started this mess. It had begun as a still life, for sure -- the ruler, the ball, the pencil, the leaf, the rose; all were accounted for... but it hadn't stayed a simple still life. The rose was now perched in a field of wild, untamed hair -- it didn't take Grantaire even a second to recognize the familiar planes of Eleanor's face beneath it, nor did it take but a second of self-reflection to realize that hearing those idiots spew their abuse at her image had hurt far worse than hearing them spew it at him.

As always, however, Eleanor's wide, joyful eyes calmed him in ways little else could. Just sounds. Just words. They don't matter when they come from those you don't care about. And really... it wasn't such a surprise that Eleanor had crept into his composition, yet again. She always seemed to find ways to do so. In a way, she'd been his muse since he was a child. No... what surprised him was the other figure who had crept onto the page, all unbidden.

Enjolras.

The pencil had been dented by teeth marks when it was added to the pile and even now, on that page, Grantaire had created a reason -- it was clasped between the precisely perfect pearly whites of one leader of Les Amis de l'ABC as he frowned intently at whatever stood before him. Grantaire had seen that look often enough. Enjolras wore it often enough. Grantaire hated that look, hated the distraction, the disapproval in those eyes... hated worse, still, the disappointment. Still... this was the first time that someone other than Eleanor had snatched away his hands while drawing. It was an unexpected development, and an unwelcome one. Grantaire's heart started, once again, to beat with the need to runrunrun. This drawing revealed a truth for which he had not been prepared. On some level, he had already known to what depths his mind was preoccupied with Enjolras. What he hadn't realized until now, however... was how deeply Enjolras had become rooted in his heart. This was dangerous, far more dangerous than even his games on tumblr. This could ruin them both.

Hands shaking with a sudden, intense need to be intoxicated, Grantaire nearly reached for the flask hidden in his back pocket. His hand never made it. A soft voice spoke up from just behind his shoulder, and he nearly fell off his stool in the grips of what felt like a massive coronary.

"I must say, Jean Prouvaire, I was confused as to why you would wish to take a class irrelevant to your major course of graduate study, but now that I've seen what you are capable of, I believe I'm beginning to understand. Talent like yours should be cultivated carefully -- relevant to your studies or not -- and a heart like yours should be cultivated just as carefully."

The words were a benediction and a blow all at once. Grantaire wasn't ready for that level of praise, wasn't worthy of it, especially not from a man as talented as Professor Mercado. He tried to deny that praise, desperately needed to deny it, push it away, in favor of dealing with this bigger problem -- or not dealing with it, as the case might be -- but Professor Mercado was having none of it. He simply wrote down the location of his office on campus, and a time, ordering 'Jean Prouvaire' to meet him there tomorrow. Once Grantaire admitted he was available, it was done. There was no backing out of that meeting, no matter what it might hold in store.

Class couldn't be dismissed quickly enough for Grantaire after that. He fled quickly from the room and the building, determined to skip the rest of his classes and drown this miserable day in copious amounts of alcohol. So intent was he in his pursuit of that goal that he didn't even notice when one of the lumbering jocks split off from the others the moment they'd left the building. Grantaire didn't notice as said jock, dark hair hiding equally dark eyes, began closely following his fellows -- who, in turn, were closely following Grantaire.

Grantaire didn't notice these things because, thanks to his undiscovered benefactor, the rest of said lumbering jocks never caught up to him. This was luckier for Grantaire than he knew... and unluckier for the class bullies than they'd ever been before. But, Grantaire didn't see, so he didn't know, and that was just as his anonymous protector wanted it. So that was how things remained and would remain... for now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smile Grantaire sent Enjolras in response was self-satisfied, like he'd been fishing for this argument and was glad that he'd finally gotten it, except... something in his eyes wasn't glad. Something in his eyes was anything but glad. Something in his eyes... Enjolras closed his own eyes and took a deep breath. When he let it out, he said, "Look. I'll be honest. I'm not at my best right now. Could we--" Enjolras winced at how pathetic this was going to sound but continued, anyway. "Could we not argue? Just for tonight?"
> 
> Silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _July 21, 2013:_** I think I'm going to stop apologizing for the length of time between updates and just accept that my muse has decided she needs to pace herself. -.-;;; For those of you who have been inquiring over the past few weeks, I appreciate your continued interest and your patience and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. ^_^ (On a side note, someone whose writing I really admire actually rec'ed my fic on tumblr today and I was so excited it kicked my muse into gear in a big way. So... thank luchia for that. ;D)
> 
> Especially because I finally got the boys to have an actual face-to-face conversation! So, it took me 9 chapters to do it. Pfft. I didn't say "slow build" for nothing. ^_~
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/56097982571/follow-you-follow-me-43255-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

"I have no sympathy for you, whatsoever, Grantaire. Get up."

Normally Grantaire appreciated nothing more than waking up to another's face, another's smile, another's warm arms around him -- even more so if they were the face, smile and arms of a friend. And Jehan's were even more well-appreciated than most.

Normally.

This morning when they came into view, Grantaire simply cursed and pulled the blankets back up over his head. It was cold and he was desperately hung over. He'd left class yesterday, gone straight to the Corinthe and gotten thoroughly plastered -- more thoroughly plastered than he'd been in a long time. He had a vague recollection of Jehan trying to talk to him. He had a vague recollection of Musichetta trying to cut him off at one point and an even vaguer recollection of managing to steal away with another bottle despite her best efforts. Beyond that, the entire night was a blank. He was pretty sure he'd missed a class -- and judging by the angle of the sunlight into the room, it was entirely possible that he'd missed two. He didn't care. He just wanted to sleep.

Jehan puttered around above him, pacing back and forth beside the bed. Grantaire could practically hear the great wheels of Jehan's mind turning, formulating some plot to extract him from his nest of softness and warmth. In the end, Jehan decided that the simplest way was the best way and said, "Fine. If you're going to be that way about it, then I suppose I'll have no choice but to go to that meeting for you."

Meeting? What meeting? Grantaire peeled back the covers just far enough to blink up at Jehan in confusion. At that dazed look, Jehan rolled his eyes and held up a business card. "This meeting, Grantaire. The one with Professor Mercado. You have just enough time to shower, get dressed and get there if you get out of bed within the next two minutes. So, either you will get out of that bed and go to that meeting... or I will." Eyes tinting with sympathy, Jehan added, "I don't think you want that, R. I know I don't."

Jehan and Grantaire stared each other down for another minute, but Grantaire did finally groan and roll himself upright -- as Jehan had known he would. Clutching his aching head in his hands, Grantaire looked up at Jehan from under the tangled fall of his hair. "I hate you, you know."

Jehan simply smiled. "No, you don't. But if thinking you do will motivate you to get out of bed faster, then you can feel free to operate under that delusion for as long as you need to do so."

Of course, Jehan won out in the end. He always did. He knew Grantaire far too well by now for it end any differently -- Grantaire really didn't have it in him to refuse, not when it was Jehan's name and reputation he was playing with here. Were it his own... well. Grantaire didn't give a hang about his own name and reputation. They could both rot for all he cared, along with Professor Mercado's opinion of him. But, for Jehan, he would keep up appearances. Jehan deserved that much from him.

So, Grantaire got himself out of bed, got ready, gave Jehan a brusque and somewhat resentful kiss on the cheek and left. He wasn't at all eager to hear whatever was so awful that Professor Mercado felt the need to get him alone to tell him, but he would. For Jehan.

* * *

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

* * *

Grantaire's head was spinning, his lungs on fire. How he'd made it through that meeting without screaming or running out halfway through, he had no idea. He thought he'd been prepared for whatever Professor Mercado might have to say, whatever abuse he might be prepared to hurl.

He hadn't.

He hadn't been prepared, at all.

_~"I believe in you."~_

_~"You have talent."~_

_~"You're capable of more than this."~_

Even now, Grantaire was half-convinced that those words had been nothing more than auditory hallucinations. The thought that someone believed in him and wanted to encourage his talent was such an alien concept that Grantaire couldn't comprehend it. It had been far too long since anyone but Jehan and Ellie had believed in him like that -- and he was still convinced that they two were biased by affection -- and he just couldn't accept it. It had to be a joke. Someone must have put the professor up to it, perhaps Jehan. Grantaire knew he had no talent. All he did was scribble, nothing more than doodles. It was just a way to pass time, nothing more.

Professor Mercado didn't think so. Not only did he not think so, he believed quite vehemently to the contrary, and it seemed he had enough belief for the both of them. He was convinced that "Jehan" had more ability than he'd been able to show in class, that taking that class was a waste of his time, that if he'd known what level of skill "Jehan" had, he'd have placed him out of that beginning class straight into Painting Practices. He could teach him nothing more about drawing than "Jehan" already knew, the professor had said. He could help refine what "Jehan" already had. He could introduce him to other techniques. But, as quickly as "Jehan" picked things up, Professor Mercado felt that he would be far better served by learning such things in a more informal setting where he could proceed at his own pace.

And that was the crux of it. Professor Mercado had shown Grantaire a revised set of assignments and study materials. It was a lot of work -- a _lot_ of work -- and would require they meet outside of class time, but if he could accomplish it all, Professor Mercado would arrange for him to receive credit for both Drawing I and Painting Practices. It would give him a head start on a fine arts degree, if he was so minded to pick one up. And if not, if he really was just in this to learn, then the professor had hinted that he would be more than happy to take him on as an independent study, said that it had been years since he'd witnessed such talent and to miss the chance to help cultivate it would be a true tragedy of lost opportunity. Professor Mercado was so passionate, so earnest... so hopeful. Grantaire had found himself agreeing before fully realizing what it was he was agreeing to do.

And now... now he was panicking. Sooner or later, Professor Mercado was going to find out he was a fraud. Either he would come to the realization that Grantaire, in fact, had no talent, or he was going to find out that Grantaire wasn't Jehan and no matter which it was, Grantaire would be ruined along with that discovery. Now that the meeting was over, now that he was out from under that dark, earnest gaze, Grantaire was shaking like a leaf. That tenuous hope was more painful than years worth of disappointment had ever been -- because he was bound to fail. He knew it in his gut. He was going to fail and add Professor Mercado to the long list of people he'd disappointed in his life.

Grantaire stumbled away from Professor Mercado's office, mind in turmoil and not paying one whit of attention to where he was going. He was focused solely on the need to get away, to put as much distance between himself and the source of that hope as he could. He desperately wanted a drink, but was, for a change, loathe to seek one out. There was a lead weight sitting in the pit of his stomach and he just knew he wouldn't be able to put down even a single swallow, much less keep it down if he did. Forget swallowing, even. The more his thoughts churned on what had happened at that meeting, the more Grantaire found he couldn't even _breathe_.

When he finally couldn't take another step, Grantaire found that he'd fetched up on Hill Square, somewhere amongst the trees and stone benches. It was bitter cold with a hint of moisture in the air and, though beautiful in its own way, the hill was stark and bare in the late winter wind. He didn't care. He sat himself down on one of the stone benches lining the brick path, dropped his head into his hands and started the arduous task of relearning how to breathe. He could do this. He could.

Even if it took all day.

* * *

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

* * *

When had it gotten so dark? Enjolras cursed under his breath, pushed his hands deeper into his coat pockets and picked up his pace. It was far too cold to be out without gloves. It might not be much of a walk from the law school buildings to his apartment, but in this weather, he'd feel every step. 

Hunching down further into his wool coat, Enjolras silently railed at everything that had led to his being out alone this late, in the cold, with no hope of a ride. Even in two weeks, the workload for his classes seemed to have increased exponentially and he'd already started to feel as though he was falling behind. He had stayed late after classes in a vain attempt to put a dent into his upcoming projects to compensate.

Then Courfeyrac had begged off their study group, claiming another commitment, leaving him alone with Marius. It wasn't that Enjolras had a problem with Marius. He didn't. They might not always see eye to eye, but the man was solid and could be depended upon. He'd proven that more than once. No, the problem was that he wasn't Courfeyrac. He didn't have Enjolras' study habits ingrained into the fiber of his brain and couldn't anticipate Enjolras' needs and desires. Enjolras was well aware that it was unrealistic to expect such catering and it was even more unfair to expect Courfeyrac to be at his beck and call at all times, as well, but... he always had been before.

Regardless, Marius had also had to beg off and leave before Enjolras was ready to call it a night. Had Enjolras been thinking straight and not buried in the codes and bylaws he was studying, he might have taken those not entirely subtle hints and left with him... and gotten a ride home. As it was, however, he hadn't been that astute and now had to suffer the consequences. He should have paid better attention, but he hadn't and there was no use wailing and moaning about it. He wasn't carrying as many of his textbooks as he could have been, after all, and it wasn't that long a walk to his apartment. And if he cut across Hill Square he'd save himself ten minutes and some traffic dodging.

Crossing that grassy, open area, however, proved not to be the brightest idea he'd ever had. Hill Square was a wide open area and the bare state of the few trees which lined the walk meant the wind blew hard and fast with nothing in its way... except Enjolras. The desire to engage in a spate of cursing at the cold bite of the wind was a strong one and Enjolras fought it as best he could. It wouldn't help anything and if someone were to hear... well. He had a reputation to maintain. Then again... it wasn't as if anyone else was insane enough to be out here in weather like this. No one would hear him. Fuck it all, why hadn't he just left with Marius? 

Now thoroughly agitated, when a particularly strong gust cut right through his coat as if it were tissue paper, Enjolras finally gave up fighting the impulse, and let out an explosive curse, screaming into the wind as if it might actually listen, "Even the wind in this society is unjust! Leave me the fuck alone and go harass someone with a warmer coat, already!"

Though he certainly didn't expect to accomplish anything with respect to the wind, Enjolras had to admit that the expression of temper got his blood pumping and warmed him just enough to press onward around the bend in the path... and right past someone sitting on one of the benches and slowly clapping his hands. Fuck. Enjolras considered ducking his head and speeding past him, but as he looked up he had realized... he knew this man.

 _Of all people on this campus who could have caught me doing something so monumentally nonsensical... why him?_ Enjolras cursed -- to himself, this time -- and reluctantly slowed to a stop in front of the hunched figure. Dark, unruly curls only barely contained under a dark green watch cap. Blazing blue eyes that were now red-rimmed -- more likely from the cold than from drink, at least -- small favors. Lanky frame hunched into a thick parka that looked far warmer than Enjolras' red, wool coat.

Grantaire.

Of course, it was Grantaire.

Enjolras had no use for Grantaire at the best of times, found his tendency to argue against every one of his plans and against every well-intentioned speech he ever made to be grating and inconveniently timed, at best. The worst part of it was that Grantaire argued everything. Indiscriminately. If it came out of Enjolras' mouth, Grantaire had an argument against it. If Enjolras thought it up, Grantaire had a thousand reasons why it was a bad idea, why it was useless to even try. And that was really the crux of the problem. Grantaire just didn't _care_ \-- about anything -- and to a man who cared about everything, that was intolerable and inexcusable. And so it was between them. Enjolras spoke. Grantaire argued. Enjolras rebutted. Grantaire provoked him. And Grantaire always seemed to win those arguments, for once Enjolras became emotional it so tangled his intellect as to leave him unable to come up with reasonable counterarguments. And Grantaire's obstinacy left Enjolras so fuming _mad_ that he was incapable of remaining dispassionate around him.

Tonight, though... Aside from that slow applause, Grantaire was remaining silent. There was no argument forthcoming. And Enjolras... he didn't know how to react to a Grantaire who was silent. Combeferre would know. He could talk to Grantaire, had done so many times. So had Courfeyrac. What would either of them do?

Despite his best intentions to the contrary, the longer the silence drew on, the more Enjolras felt his face heating in an intense blush. He was drawing a complete blank on any possible way he could explain himself, wasn't even sure he wanted to try. After all, what possible explanation would excuse screaming into the wind like a lunatic?

After another few moments, Grantaire stopped his clapping and lowered his hands, said simply, "I feel you. It's fucking cold out here. Anyone with any sense would be cursing the elements." He let out a soft huff of a laugh. "I guess you have some sense, after all."

Enjolras stared at Grantaire for a moment, brows drawing together in suspicion. Finally, he said, "I don't need you wasting my time with mockery, tonight. I just want to get out of this damned cold."

Grantaire stood -- slowly, Enjolras noted, as though he were stiff or sore -- and clapped Enjolras on the shoulder. "Well, then, by all means, let us seek out more hospitable climes." Grantaire smiled, then, before turning and starting to walk, easily picking up the ground-eating pace of one used to walking everywhere they went, forcing Enjolras to keep up or get left behind. It wasn't until they'd walked two blocks that Enjolras realized that he hadn't had to follow at all. He could have gone his own way. He could have stayed behind. He could walk away from Grantaire at any time. He could... but he found himself not wanting to do so.

For all that Enjolras had been habitually self-contained as a child and as a young adult, and was so even now, he had never truly been on his own. His parents and Courfeyrac, and later Combeferre, had gone with him everywhere he went. For as long as he could remember, Enjolras had never been alone. He'd always had someone following him. And he had to confess, he still appreciated the company, now... even if it was Grantaire's. As long as the man stayed silent and didn't provoke an argument. Enjolras was in no mood for that tonight. He just wanted to get inside and get warm.

So intent was he on his shivering and his subtle attempts to keep Grantaire and his parka between himself and the wind, that Enjolras didn't at first notice that they weren't exactly going in the correct direction and spoke up about it. "Wait. My apartment is in the opposite direction."

Grantaire arched an eyebrow at him, chuckled low in his throat. "Enjolras... at what point in this non-conversation did I say I was walking you to your apartment? When I suggested a more hospitable climate, you had no input to offer, so I chose a destination on my own. If you had an objection, you should have spoken up sooner."

Enjolras gaped at him for a moment, but forced himself to think before answering for a change. The last thing he wanted to do was stop on a street corner and get into an argument. It was too damned cold. So, that left him with two choices. He could figure out where they were and how to get home from here or he could follow along to whatever destination that Grantaire had in mind and hope it was warm and comfortable enough that he could get his wits properly engaged, again. Finally, he sighed and, fighting to repress a shiver, said, "You're right. Is your intended destination at least close?"

Grantaire's smile softened, though a hint of laughter still danced around its edges. "Two more blocks. Will you make it that far or would you like to trade coats for the duration?"

Enjolras scowled, now certain that Grantaire was mocking him, and set off down the street at a faster pace. Grantaire caught up to him at the next corner, laughing. They resumed their silence until Grantaire stopped them and waved a hand at a relatively nondescript door. Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "Here?"

Grantaire nodded. "Here." He pushed the door open and waved Enjolras inside. The moment the door closed behind them, Enjolras couldn't have cared less if Grantaire had brought him to a brothel or crackhouse. It was _warm_ and that was all that mattered.

Grantaire laughed again, soft and amused. "Who'd have thought? Enjolras the revolutionary zealot is secretly a cat." At Enjolras' affronted look, he explained. "No, really. You should see the look of utter bliss on your face at this moment. It matches my cat's 'I found the perfect sunbeam' expression, to a tee."

Warmer, but still not warm, Enjolras still found himself loathe to get into an argument. And it seemed an unfair double standard in this instance, as he knew Courfeyrac had made the same comparison more than once and gotten away with it. It was a running joke between he and Combeferre, in fact. Finally Enjolras merely asked, "You have a cat?"

Grantaire blinked at him, clearly confused at Enjolras' refusal to engage at that obvious opening for an argument, but finally said, "I suppose it's fairer to say that my parents have a cat. I wanted to bring her with me when I came up here, but it didn't seem fair. She has acres of grounds to wander at home and here she'd be trapped in an apartment."

And there it was. The spark. Enjolras' head came up, his eyes blazed and he shot back, "Do you have any idea how much shorter the lifespan is for a cat who lives outdoors? That's unnecessarily cruel. She could be hit by a car or carried off by a predator or suffer any number of other horrible fates."

The smile Grantaire sent Enjolras in response was self-satisfied, like he'd been fishing for this argument and was glad that he'd finally gotten it, except... something in his eyes wasn't glad. Something in his eyes was anything but glad. Something in his eyes... Enjolras closed his own eyes and took a deep breath. When he let it out, he said, "Look. I'll be honest. I'm not at my best right now. Could we--" Enjolras winced at how pathetic this was going to sound but continued, anyway. "Could we not argue? Just for tonight?"

Silence.

More silence.

Enjolras could feel the heat rising in his face again and hastened to add, "As soon as I'm warm, I'll be back on my game and you can battle with me to your heart's content, I just--"

"No, it's fine." Grantaire interrupted him, such a strange expression on his face that Enjolras couldn't even begin to decipher it. "I've been finding myself wearying of our constant arguments for some time, now. I'm game to attempt it if you are." A self-deprecating smile crept across his face. "Besides, as closely entangled as our friends are becoming, I doubt we could stay away from each other if we tried, and Jehan has expressed a desire to not be forced to baby-sit me when you're around. I'm sure he would appreciate it if you and I could master the art of civil conversation... or at the very least, begin the process of apprenticing to it."

"All right, then."

"All right, then."

And once that civil bar had been set... they both fell silent. Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Grantaire did the same. After both had repeated those actions and still come up with nothing, Enjolras realized that he was at a complete loss as to what to say to Grantaire when not in the heat of an argument. Finally Grantaire lamely asked if he'd like to sit down and made a half-hearted gesture towards the tables. Grateful for anything to talk about that wasn't going to leave him awkward and uncomfortable, Enjolras asked, "What is this place, anyway?"

Grantaire shrugged, smile finally reappearing and turning vaguely sheepish. "La Crêperie." At Enjolras' raised eyebrow, Grantaire actually blushed a little, ducked his head. "Given how you reacted when Jehan suggested changing the SJWs' name to something ostentatiously French, I figured you for just as much a Francophile as he is and this is his favorite restaurant in Philly. The owner is French, so the crêpes are as close to authentic as you can get outside of Paris." He shrugged, again. "Thought you'd like it, too, is all."

Enjolras couldn't help it. He really couldn't. With each word to come out of Grantaire's mouth, Enjolras' eyes widened a little further. He was staring. He knew he was staring. That had been days ago -- _weeks_. Yet, with perhaps five words worth of conversation to go off of, Grantaire had puzzled out an aspect to Enjolras' personality that he didn't go out of his way to advertise. It was, perhaps, the most thoughtful gesture anyone not Courfeyrac or Combeferre had ever made towards him. And even now, Grantaire's posture was deflating, that sad look returning to his eyes as he mumbled, "But, clearly I'm wrong, so we can go somewhere else."

Enjolras reached out as Grantaire started to turn, and grabbed his coat sleeve. "No! It's... I just didn't realize you knew me that well. You surprised me, and I'm not easily surprised."

A short puff of laughter. "No, I don't suppose you are, at that. Shall we, then?"

They made their way to the tables, choosing one near a heating vent. Enjolras gratefully curled down into his seat and hunched over it, leaning down to warm his hands, as well. Grantaire smiled as he handed over one of the menus. "You really don't handle cold well, do you?"

Enjolras shrugged as he chafed his hands together above the vent. "I never have."

A teasing lilt crept into Grantaire's voice. "Then might I suggest gloves in the future? And a warmer coat? I'll admit the red is striking on you, but is fashion really worth suffering this much for?"

Enjolras simply made a sour face in response to those suggestions. Grantaire held up his hands in a gesture of peace-making as though to say, "I'm sorry. I forgot we weren't arguing." Enjolras rolled his eyes and, now that feeling was finally returning to his fingers, sat up to start looking at the menu. Silence fell as they both debated crêpe choices, broken only by the sound of their stomachs rumbling as the smells from the stove-top began wafting their way.

Once Enjolras had made his selection, he sat back to wait as Grantaire made his. From everything Enjolras knew of Grantaire, this entire night was out of character for him. Then again, if he were being honest, Grantaire was still mostly a mystery to him. He was Jehan's friend. Eponine's friend. He was Joly's friend, Bossuet's and Musichetta's. He was fast becoming Courfeyrac's friend, as well. It was becoming a commonplace occurrence to find those two knocking back drinks together at the Musain even before Christmas break. But what did Enjolras really know of Grantaire, himself? 

Grantaire was... not entirely fortunately favored of appearance. His hair had a mind of its own. His teeth were crooked enough that it seemed no attempt had ever been made to fix them. His nose was... well, Enjolras was sure he had seen worse. But his eyes... his eyes were such a startling, striking blue that they put even Enjolras' own to shame. Right now, those eyes were narrowed in thought, the long fingers of one hand gently tapping at Grantaire's lower lip as he mouthed the names of his options to himself.

It was rare to see Grantaire so still, Enjolras realized. Usually he was the life of the party -- and if there was no party, he was wont to create one. He was hardly ever seen without a glass in his hand, or a bottle. Enjolras didn't even know what Grantaire did at university besides drink and frequent gaming halls. Grantaire was older than he, Enjolras suspected, but according to those who knew him better, he had yet to acquire even an undergraduate degree. It wasn't that he was unintelligent, either. Quite the contrary. He was smart, and quick on his feet when he wished to be. Grantaire believed in nothing, yet he had such passion when he argued his points that even Enjolras found himself swept away by him. Perhaps that was what infuriated him most. All of that passion, all of that potential... wasting away. It made him angry just thinking about it. If Grantaire would apply even a _little_ of it--

"Do you know what you want?"

"Hm... what?" Enjolras startled, caught off guard by the sudden question. As Grantaire smiled wryly at his obvious distraction, Enjolras found himself reddening in embarrassment, yet again, and snapped back, "Want from who?"

Grantaire simply jerked his thumb in the direction of the server waiting patiently by their table, a fond smile on her face. Grantaire deadpanned, "The chef."

After Enjolras hastily gave his order -- attempting and failing to cover his growing irritation with his own failure to be civil -- Grantaire gave his, as well, and silence fell over the table, again. After a few more minutes of uncomfortable shifting on both their parts, Grantaire offered up, "Peanut butter and Nutella, huh? Interesting choice. I figured you more for a savory crêpe sort of fellow."

Enjolras picked up his napkin and started rolling it up and weaving it through his fingers. He shrugged. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

Grantaire laughed. It was a good laugh, Enjolras couldn't help but notice. Full-throated and unapologetic, just like the rest of him. And it set Enjolras' teeth on edge -- associating it, as he did, with Grantaire preparing to undercut yet another of his arguments. This time, however, it was merely a presage to Grantaire saying, "I would never knock another man's crêpe choices. I just thought you would have healthier eating habits, what with this latest crusade against the dining hall."

At Grantaire's openly interested look, Enjolras cracked a small smile in response. "Only when Courfeyrac is doing the cooking. Otherwise, I tend to make do with whatever's in my cupboard."

"Thus the penchant for peanut butter and Nutella." Grantaire looked positively delighted by this revelation, as though Enjolras were a Matryoshka doll and he'd just opened him up to discover the next layer. "Well, perhaps I should bring you back here sometime when you're feeling more adventurous and introduce you to some more traditional choices."

Enjolras raised his gaze to meet the sparking blue one across the table, trying to gauge Grantaire's intent. There was a teasing lilt in his voice that seemed to hint at this being yet more mockery, but his eyes told a different story. Those eyes were hopeful. They were real. Enjolras found himself nodding, yet unsure exactly why. The hopeful smile in Grantaire's eyes slowly spread down to his mouth and Enjolras couldn't help but smile in return.

They managed to keep up the small talk until their food arrived, neatly diverting their attention. Enjolras, finally feeling warm, again, shrugged out of his coat and dug into his food. He hadn't realized until then exactly how hungry he'd been. And Grantaire was right -- the food was excellent, and Enjolras was more than pleased with his choice, only... He lifted his gaze from his plate to frown at Grantaire's. "What did you order?"

Grantaire lifted an eyebrow at him as he swallowed the mouthful he'd been chewing and asked, "Why? Smell putting you off?"

Frowning, Enjolras shook his head, "Quite the contrary. It smells delicious. What is it?"

"A galette forestière." At Enjolras' raised eyebrow, Grantaire said, "Do you have a problem with dairy or shellfish?" When Enjolras shook his head, Grantaire cut off a corner of his gallette and put it on Enjolras' plate. When Enjolras simply stared at it dumbly, Grantaire laughed. "Sautéed onions and garlic, cream, mushrooms. The other ingredients that go in it can vary. Jehan likes eggs and bacon in his. I like scallops and shrimp in mine -- though I suppose that makes it less 'forest' and more 'surf-and-turf,' doesn't it?"

As Grantaire spoke, Enjolras poked tentatively at the piece on his plate. It certainly _sounded_ like a good mixture of ingredients, but... Grantaire continued to watch him, an expectant smile on his face as Enjolras procrastinated. It was a silly hang-up, really. His parents shared food with each other, eating off each other's plates as though they were communal dishes, but like with so many things, Enjolras had always been more reserved. It seemed wrong somehow, to react to someone telling you your food smelled good by cutting off a piece and giving it to them. To Enjolras, that implied a level of intimacy that he was absolutely certain he and Grantaire did not share. Then again, not everyone felt the same about sharing food. Given how communally Grantaire and his friend, Jehan, shared their personal space and belongings, and that Courfeyrac and Grantaire were fast developing that same shared space, that might simply be how Grantaire operated. And then it would be rude to refuse... and might start an argument.

Enjolras chanced a glance upwards just in time to see the uncomfortable flush in Grantaire's cheeks and the worry in his eyes before it was covered with another smile. Enjolras watched him for a moment more before turning back to the corner of gallette on his plate, now beginning to unfold. Before he could change his mind, Enjolras scooped it up and put the whole thing in his mouth. As he chewed, Enjolras shot another glance up at Grantaire, hidden from beneath his bangs. There. That worried expression had cleared, again. Perhaps Grantaire, himself, hadn't realized exactly what he'd implied about their level of intimacy when he'd offered that piece of food. Perhaps, he'd simply meant it as a nice gesture. Very well, then. Enjolras would treat it as such and think no more of it. Once he'd swallowed, Enjolras turned the full force of his gaze back on Grantaire and smiled, "It tastes as good as it smells -- perhaps better. I'll have to remember that for next time."

* * *

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

* * *

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

Grantaire grabbed onto a lamppost and twirled himself around it, heart soaring and smiling so wide his cheeks ached. 

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

Even when he'd calmed himself down after the meeting that afternoon, Grantaire had been unable to convince himself to leave Hill Square. He was calmer, after all, but no less distraught. He felt numb, and not just from the cold. He needed Jehan. He needed a drink. He needed someone to lift him up and carry him to the Musain, plop him down in his favorite corner, put a glass in front of him and just keep them coming. He need to not be himself, to not have to think. Sitting on a stone bench in an open area and freezing his ass along with his brain had been a poor second optioin.

...and Enjolras had been the last -- the _absolute last_ \-- person he would have wanted to run into.

Naturally, that meant that Murphy's Law would conspire to make it happen. So, it had. Only... Enjolras hadn't been himself, either. That much was obvious from the way he'd been cursing the elements as though they might respond. Though, given the force with which those obscenities had been uttered, Grantaire had been almost surprised that the wind hadn't obeyed. Had he been the wind, Grantaire certainly would have.

The one good thing to come of that incidental meeting, however, was that Enjolras was clearly not at his best. And when not at his best, he was more pliant, less likely to jump on every disagreement and blow it out of proportion. He was more like his online self, more like the Enjolras who Rebus had gotten to know behind the scenes... more like the Enjolras who had sent Rebus those sad, one-sided conversations over the break.

So, Grantaire took a chance.

And it had paid off.

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

Though dinner had been awkward -- good G-d, had it been awkward -- it was still the longest stretch of time they'd managed to remain civil to each other, ever, in person. They'd kept to small talk, both before, during and after the meal, but it had been pleasant -- far more so than Grantaire had ever hoped his first date with Enjolras might go.

Grantaire paused, stopped his twirling down the sidewalk, reality halting his steps as surely as quicksand would have done. No. This hadn't been a date. You couldn't call something a date unless both participants were aware that it was one. This hadn't even been dinner between two friends. This had been a happy coincidence, nothing more.

But, while it might not be a first date, it was a first step -- an important first step. Grantaire had proven that he and Enjolras could share space and conversation, in real life, and not bite each other's heads off. It could be done. It _could_.

Grantaire resumed his walk, meandering slowly In the direction of the Corinthe. Jehan had mentioned that he planned to stop there for dinner and to spend some time with Musichetta. Jehan's friendship with the young Latina had deepened this semester and he'd taken to spending more time at the Corinthe, as a result. Secretly, Grantaire thought Jehan was angling to be included in her growing harem someday, but seeing how happy that friendship made the two of them, Grantaire kept that speculation to himself.

By the time he reached the Corinthe, Grantaire had just barely managed to tone down his zeal, though he couldn't keep that ridiculous smile off his face no matter how he tried -- not with Enjolras' words still repeating in his head like a broken record.

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

Joly was the first to spot him when Grantaire pushed open the door. He gave him a welcoming smile and held up his glass in salute. When Grantaire beamed him a smile, Joly laughed and leaned over to tap Musichetta. She turned, saw Grantaire hanging up his coat in the alcove that served as her cloak room, and wordlessly poured him a double of whisky which he gratefully claimed when he plunked himself down on a stool at the bar.

It took another minute for Jehan to notice Grantaire's presence, but once he did, he raced right over, face flushed with a mix of fear and excitement. "How did it go? It must have gone well. You're smiling! Wait. That meeting was over hours ago. Grantaire, where have you _been_ all this time? Why didn't you call? Wait. Scratch that. Never mind. Just _tell me it went well_."

By the time he'd run out of words, Jehan had his hands fisted in Grantaire's shirt and was shaking him hard enough to slosh his whisky. Grantaire gingerly placed the glass on the bar -- not an easy feat when being shaken so hard -- and then gripped Jehan's arms to give him a shake of his own. "Prouvaire! Good grief. Calm down, all right?"

Jehan closed his eyes and deliberately flexed his hands, removing them from Grantaire's shirt in the process. Grantaire began to sweat. When Jehan opened his eyes, he placed his hands on either side of Grantaire's face, leaned in close and whispered quietly, "Tell. Me." It was more effective than any screaming he could have done.

So, Grantaire told him. He told him about the meeting, and it was only then, surrounded by friends and out from under Enjolras' addictive and distracting presence, that he let the impact of that hit him, again. Feeling him start to shake under his hands, Jehan wordlessly handed over his whisky. Grantaire took a steadying sip before finishing his tale. Once he had, Jehan frowned. "But... R, this is good! It's very good. What's wrong?"

And the rest came pouring out -- the fear, the anxiety, the absolute certainty that he was going to fail and make a fool of himself, of Professor Mercado, of Jehan. Jehan held him through it, hands rubbing soothing circles over his back. He didn't shush him, didn't tell him not to worry. He knew Grantaire too well for that. He simply let him get it out, let Grantaire shake against his shoulder and was good enough not to mention it when the fabric of his shirt was damp where Grantaire's face had been when he was done.

It was Bossuet who finally broke the resulting silence, voice confused. "So... why were you so happy when you came in if it wasn't that?"

And in response to that, Grantaire blushed... and every one of his friends homed in on that blush like sharks to a bucket of chum. Not a one of them said a word, but he could hear what they must be thinking as loud as if it were a shout -- Grantaire had met someone. Grantaire ducked his head, coughed once and said...

"Enjolras and I kind of went on a date...?"

His friends took a moment to process those words and once they had... all hell broke loose.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras was always at his best when fired up with passion… so maybe it was time to see how well he handled fighting a war on two fronts. Grantaire was ready to shake the hornet's nest.
> 
>   _Good luck, Enjolras… you're going to need it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _August 19, 2013:_** Another day, another chapter -- and with this chapter, comes the return of Rebus. It's been a bit too long since he made an appearance. ;) Also... Bahorel! Finally made it full-on into the fic. And with his appearance, solved quite a few problems for me -- like how Feuilly is going to fit in, again. *eg* Again, thank you all for sticking around! ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/58718821735/follow-you-follow-me-47516-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

Jehan picked up his drink, then put it down without taking a sip. He opened his mouth to talk, then closed it without saying a word. He frowned, pursed his lips, then deliberately flexed his hands and laid them flat on the table. 

Grantaire edged his seat just far enough away to be out of easy reach.

Finally, Jehan took in a deep breath, let it out and said, "Grantaire… you know that--"

"--this wasn't really a date. Yes, Jehan, I know that." Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. This was the fourth time they'd been over this ground. Joly and Bossuet had given up after the third run-through and gone to keep Musichetta company at the bar. Grantaire, unfortunately, as much as he would also like to flee, was stuck going through this as many times as Jehan wanted them to go through it. He owed Jehan that much.

Jehan frowned again, picked up his drink and took a sip, then placed it precisely back in its spot on the table and folded his hands in his lap. "You know I'm only trying to look out for you, right? Grantaire…" He reached out, took Grantaire's hand in his and said, "…I don't want to see you get hurt."

Grantaire looked down as Jehan tighten his grip around his hand, as though he could will Grantaire to his point of view simply by wishing it to be so. If Grantaire could have reassured him with words alone, he would have done so. But words seemed to flee Grantaire by the thousands for Jehan's far brighter shores when they got into discussions like this. And if eloquence was unavailable… sincerity was really his only option. 

Grantaire said, "If I make you a promise, will that suffice?" When Jehan hesitantly nodded, Grantaire put his glass down and wrapped his free hand around their joined ones. Looking directly into Jehan's eyes, he said, "I can't promise to stay away from him, so I won't bother placating you with that easy lie. I _do_ promise to be careful." Grantaire smiled softly at Jehan as he gave their joined hands a squeeze and pulled them up to rest against his own chest. "I promise to take care of this heart as though it were yours."

Jehan watched him for another moment, two moments, three. Just when Grantaire was beginning to worry that he'd misjudged Jehan's trust in him, Jehan nodded once and turned their hands so he could press his against the steady beating of Grantaire's heart. "You are nothing if not careful of your friends' hearts... but it saddens me that the only way you can be convinced to take care of your own is to pretend it belongs to another." He leaned over, pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire's lips. "Especially as your heart is more precious to me than my own ever was."

There was nothing more Grantaire could say to that, so he simply pulled Jehan into his arms and held him close. He could no more reassure Jehan that he wouldn't get hurt than he could reassure himself and Jehan well knew that. He also knew that given this small window of opportunity, there was no way that Grantaire could fail to try. He owed _himself_ that much. Drink forgotten on the table and Jehan tucked comfortingly in his arms… Grantaire began to plan his next move. Enjolras was always at his best when fired up with passion… so maybe it was time to see how well he handled fighting a war on two fronts. Grantaire was ready to shake the hornet's nest.

_Good luck, Enjolras… you're going to need it._

* * *

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

* * *

"You ready for another, my friend?" Courfeyrac offered the broad-shouldered, dusky-skinned man at the table his widest, most engaging smile and a slip of a wink as he asked.

Bahorel returned that smile stare for stare, his eyebrow starting a slow climb that landed it up in his hairline by the time he answered, "Jesus fucking Christ, Courfeyrac, take it down a notch, would you? I don't slight people on tips, especially if they're my friends, and especially when they're helping out other friends. Keep your pants on, all right? For both our sakes."

Courfeyrac edged closer, leaned across Bahorel's legs to retrieve his empty glass. "You sure? Me with my pants off is a rather spectacular sight. You should generally find out what you're missing out on before you turn it down."

"Damn it, Courfeyrac! Stop hitting on the customers! You're here to help me, not drive away my business!"

Courfeyrac's smile turned sheepish, a little contrite, as he turned back towards the bar. "Oh, come on." He leaned down to drop a kiss onto Bahorel's close-cropped black hair. "He's known me too long to take me seriously… and he _has_ seen me with my pants off."

At Eponine's aghast look and the spluttering beginnings of what looked like it would turn into a truly impressive harangue, Courfeyrac's smile widened, "Locker room, Eponine. Locker room." When that wasn't enough to assuage the boiling mad look on her face, he elaborated, "JV soccer in undergrad. It's how we met. Didn't I ever mention?"

Bahorel rolled his eyes. "And I'm still scarred for life."

When Courfeyrac turned back, he had his free hand pressed to his chest and such a wounded look on his face that it was impossible not to believe it was real. Bahorel immediately relented and said, "Oh… You're a glory to look at -- clothed or unclothed -- and you well know it. You're just fishing for compliments."

His wounded expression fading as though it had never been, Courfeyrac slipped Bahorel a wink and tweaked his nose. "Yeah. Little bit. But I know you're always good for one, so I can't help myself."

As Courfeyrac went over to the bar to grab the replacement for Bahorel's drained drink, Bahorel allowed himself a short huff of a laugh at his own expense. He'd known Courfeyrac long enough to know that taking him seriously was something only a fool did more than once, but still… he couldn't help it. He'd rather be a fool then inadvertently hurt a friend. And Courfeyrac, for all his bluster and bravado, had a tendency to wear his huge, tender heart on his sleeve for all the world to take potshots at. It made Bahorel feel more than a little protective of him.

Take tonight. With classes resuming and many of Eponine's hires being local and from the college, she always seemed loathe to make a fuss when one would call in 'sick' out of the blue. Generally they were anything but. Generally it was a case of too little studying discovered too late. But, because beneath _her_ bluster and bravado, Eponine was as tender-hearted as Courfeyrac, she refused to push. It earned her more loyalty from her employees than most of the business owners in the city received from theirs, but it occasionally left her short-handed. Courfeyrac had seen that and volunteered his services if she ever found herself stuck.

Volunteered.

Eponine had been reluctant at first, not knowing much of him beyond his drinking habits and his willingness to take Marius in when he'd needed a place to stay, but if there was one thing Courfeyrac was, it was reliable to his friends. And if his definition of 'friend' was a bit looser than most -- he'd declared Bahorel his friend after only one practice, after all, and then proceeded to make it stick, to Bahorel's surprise -- no one had the heart to call him on it. She'd made the call, he'd promised to be here and here he was. And far from being off-putting, his flirting _had_ been bringing in business. Unless he was drunk or being purposefully obtuse, he had a fairly good sense of when flirting was welcome and exactly how far he could push it without being offensive. He had quite a following, in fact, and never lacked for a date when he wanted one -- male or female -- and most of said following had 'discovered' the Musain once he'd started filling in as a waiter… and never quite left, again. Eponine knew it, too, but she was stubborn and didn't hand out thanks easily or graciously.

In fact, Bahorel's first hint of how lucrative the arrangement was becoming for her was when she began insisting that Courfeyrac keep his tips. Bahorel had been there that night. Courfeyrac had simply smiled one of those slow, self-satisfied numbers, and bowed at the waist with a flourish before pocketing said tips. They'd not spoken a word of it beyond that. Courfeyrac was just like that. He was the first to jump to help a friend in need, but the last to own up to how much help he'd given. He was a walking contradiction and Bahorel, being a bit of one himself, could well appreciate that.

When Courfeyrac returned with his drink, Bahorel caught at his sleeve and nodded towards the empty seat beside him. Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow, but when Eponine nodded her approval at the break, sat willingly enough and helped himself to a drink from the glass he'd just brought to the table. Once he'd quenched his thirst, he turned towards Bahorel and asked, "Something on your mind?"

"A puzzle, my friend. A puzzle. One I came here in the hopes of acquiring your assistance in solving."

Courfeyrac smiled, slow and wide. "What makes you think I would be of any use? Combeferre would be a better choice."

Bahorel quirked an eyebrow in return. "I know you, Courfeyrac. Perhaps not so well as Combeferre or Enjolras, who have both known you longer… but in my own way, I think I see you more clearly for all that." He leaned forward, steepled his fingers in front of his face, "Neither you nor I are quite as unintellectual as we pretend to be, are we?"

Courfeyrac met Bahorel's gaze for a long moment, then reached past him, lifted his drink, saluted him… and downed the remainder in one swallow. When he'd finished that, he held up a finger in a clear request for patience, and returned to the bar. When he came back, he had two drinks in hand -- a refill for Bahorel and a beer for himself. Once he'd settled back down, he said, "All right, Bahorel. You have my undivided attention until Eponine needs me. What kind of puzzle are we talking about?"

Bahorel leaned back, crossed his feet at the ankles in front of him and his arms over his chest. "The puzzle of one of our new recruits." When those words prompted Courfeyrac's eyes to widen in dismay before he buried the expression in a long pull at his bottle, Bahorel waited him out, but when he finished by saying, "I believe his name is Grantaire," Courfeyrac's covering drink turned into a not-so-covering choke. Bahorel reached out and patted him on the back until he was breathing easier, again.

In a voice that was far too nonchalant for all the reaction Courfeyrac had been giving him before, he said, "Skinny fellow, dark curly hair, blue eyes, drinks like a fish, fights with Enjolras like it's going out of style? That new recruit?"

Bahorel's laugh was a low rumble in response. "That would be the one. Only I'm taking a class with him and the teacher keeps calling him 'Jehan'… which I thought was the name of the scrawny blonde with the outdated fashion sense who tags along with him."

Courfeyrac frowned, leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. "It is. That's odd." Frown deepening, he said, "OK, so it's a puzzle, for sure, but what difference does it make? How does that concern you? Or me, for that matter?"

Bahorel shrugged, "It doesn't, not really. Except I like to at least have an idea of what's going on before I blunder into the middle of a situation."

A laugh. "Not like that's ever stopped you blundering in before."

"Well, no, but still… call it curiosity. If there's one thing I've learned in all my years here, it's how to think. And I think there's more to this situation than meets the eyes… but either way, I'm not going to just stand by and let the poor kid get bullied and the more I know, the more likely I'll be able to stop it for good."

"Wait." Courfeyrac sat up, stared straight into Bahorel's grey eyes and said, "Grantaire is getting bullied? By who?"

Bahorel shrugged. "Don't know. Some of the dumb jocks in that art class with us. Could be something as simple as jealousy -- the kid's good and not savvy enough to hide it -- but it could be something more sinister. Why? You hear anything?"

Courfeyrac sighed and shook his head. "Not a thing. I'll keep an ear out, though. For all he shakes things up, he's a good man… and like a few others I know, smarter than he lets on." He saluted Bahorel with his beer bottle before finishing it off and standing. "He's good for Enjolras, too. Better than he realizes, I think. I don't want to see him get hurt, not only for his own sake, but for Enjolras', too. It's good he has someone around who won't roll over for him, because he sure doesn't listen to Combeferre and I when we challenge him, anymore. I'd want to keep Grantaire around for that alone… but I like him, too. He's a friend."

Bahorel gave Courfeyrac a soft punch in the shoulder which Courfeyrac immediately played up for effect and Bahorel ignored. "Everyone's your friend, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac dropped the drama and smiled a softer smile, a sheepish one, "Well, that's as may be, but… this is different. Like you were different. Like Feuilly was different. Like Marius was different. There's potential for more there and I don't want to miss out on my chance at it, OK?" His eyes grew serious for a moment, darkening with feeling. "Besides, no one deserves to be bullied -- especially not for having a gift. You watch his back in class and I'll try to get to the bottom of the rest of this. Combeferre mentioned wanting to get to know Jehan better, anyway. This is a perfect excuse to get him alone and do just that."

Bahorel waited a heartbeat, then quietly added, "I'd like to be in on that conversation, if I could. Combeferre isn't the only one who'd like to get to know our little poet better."

Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, then burst into such infectious laughter that he had people at all the tables around them grinning, as well, and Eponine rolling her eyes and shushing him from the bar. When he calmed, he patted Bahorel on the shoulder and said, "I'll let you know when it goes down. It would be my pleasure to arrange a formal introduction for you two."

When Bahorel went to settle up his bar tab later on that night, Eponine waved him away, said Courfeyrac had already taken care of it. Bahorel tipped his cap to Courfeyrac, busily bussing tables on the other side of the bar, and went back to his table to leave him a fifty under his half-empty glass. Two could play at that game.

* * *

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

* * *

Combeferre startled awake from where he was slumped over his books, knocking his glasses askew and nearly knocking his glass of water off the table, as well. As he fought to bring the thundering of his heart back under control, the noise that had awoken him sounded once more, sending his heart into another spasm of frantic beating. Taking a quick glance at his watch to confirm that it was, in fact, as late as the pitch darkness around him hinted it was, Combeferre let out a quiet curse and seriously debated not answering the door.

"Combeferre! Please… if you're awake, let me in!"

…damn it. Combeferre groaned himself off the couch and flipped the switch on the lamp timer to turn it back on. In the future, he'd have to remember to take it off timer when he was going to be studying late after a full day of clinics. It had been far too easy to fall asleep once the light switched itself off and he really couldn't afford that kind of carelessness. Taking off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes, Combeferre made his way to the door by touch and long familiarity. Really, he wanted nothing more than to veer left towards his bedroom and go to sleep, but Enjolras was even now resuming his frantic pounding at the door and he was bound to wake the neighbors if he kept it up. 

And it really wouldn't be fair to leave him in such a state.

Combeferre reached the door still upright by a combination of will and pure cussedness. When Combeferre finally got the door open, however, Enjolras had been leaning so heavily upon it as he knocked that he fell into Combeferre's arms with the sudden loss of resistance and nearly knocked them both to the ground in the process. Only a quick grab for the doorframe saved them from that ignominious end. Combeferre held on to the door and Enjolras just long enough for Enjolras to get his feet back under him, proximity allowing him to catch the raging blush on Enjolras' face before it faded and lack of corrective eyewear allowing him to pretend he hadn't. And really, that was for the best. An embarrassed Enjolras was an impossible Enjolras and Combeferre was too tired to deal with an Enjolras dead set on being impossible.

Combeferre busied himself with closing the door and replacing his glasses onto their usual perch as Enjolras started to pace behind his couch, hands wringing together so hard that Combeferre half-expected to hear bones creaking. Once Combeferre turned away from the door and towards the rest of the room, giving Enjolras his full attention, Enjolras all but wailed, "It's the first time I've heard from him in _weeks_ and I don't know what to do!"

In spite of the vague nature of that blurted out commentary, it took Combeferre depressingly little time to deduce what had Enjolras upset. Who ever managed to get Enjolras this riled these days? Only Grantaire and Rebus. And it couldn't be Grantaire because Enjolras had certainly heard from him over the last few weeks -- far more often than Combeferre's desire for general peace appreciated. So, it could only be Rebus. Why now? Why not at some reasonable hour? For that matter, why hadn't Enjolras gone to Courfeyrac with this? He would have been far better suited for it. Well, it was too late, now. Wordlessly, Combeferre held out his hand.

Enjolras stared at the proffered hand for a moment before slumping and reaching into his pocket for his phone and handing it over. As Combeferre unlocked the phone and pulled up the tumblr app, Enjolras went back to pacing. "Why now, Combeferre? I don't even know what I did to prompt it and what if I say the wrong thing and he drops off the face of the Earth, again?" Combeferre opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but Enjolras stopped him by grabbing his free hand and squeezing it to him. Quietly, intensely, he said, "I can't lose him, again, Combeferre. _Help me._ "

Combeferre put the phone down. With the arm not already in Enjolras' possession, Combeferre pulled him into a brief embrace. It's what Courfeyrac would have done and, while Combeferre might not be Courfeyrac, Enjolras was so distraught that the gesture was welcomed as though he was. He said, "Enjolras, let me see what he wrote and we'll figure out how to respond. In the meantime… breathe."

Enjolras took in a shaky breath and slowly let it out. By the time he'd taken a second and third, he was ready to step out of Combeferre's hold, to relax his grip on Combeferre's hand. Combeferre turned back to Enjolras' phone and opened the notifications page. "Am I looking for a message or a reblog?"

"A reblog," was the sullen and irritated reply. "He didn't even contact me directly. After all this time." Combeferre laughed as Enjolras huffed to himself from the other side of the room. It would almost be cute if it weren't so exasperating. In fact, it _was_ cute… right up until Combeferre read the tags on the reblogged post. Rebus had chosen to reblog their post dealing with students' rights in regards to their food choices in the cafeteria, and his tag commentary couldn't be considered anything but the opening salvo to a war.

_~#les amis de l'ABC #really #new name new face new policies? #world social justice stage too big for you these days enjolras? #I mean… come on #the school cafeteria? #i can't #i just can't #it's too easy #it's an insult #i'm gone a few weeks and this is what i come back to? #jfc why did I even bother with you in the first place? #have fun with your new catering business~_

Combeferre winced, his shoulders bunching further with tension with every word he read. Why… _why_ did Rebus have to attack the one truly effective thing Enjolras had kick-started this semester? He looked up in time to catch Enjolras returning to wringing his hands and pacing. Softly, he asked, "Enjolras… it seems to me as though you're upset for the wrong reasons."

When Enjolras turned back towards Combeferre, his brows were drawn together, his lips pulled into a severe frown. Combeferre sighed, moved to perch on the arm of the couch and lifted a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "He attacked you. He attacked your ideals. He attacked one of the most effective plans for change we've had in years. And what you're concerned about is that if you don't respond correctly he won't do it, again? Enjolras, surely you must realize how ludicrous that sounds."

Enjolras turned away, resumed pacing, his arms tightly crossed over his chest. Combeferre watched and he waited. Slowly moving lips, drawn together brows, arms fighting their tightly controlled imprisonment against each other in a failed effort to gesticulate, quick, military-precise quarter turns at the end of each pass -- Enjolras was working the problem. Seeing that, Combeferre put Enjolras' phone down and began tidying his papers. Enjolras needed time to think it through. They'd deal with the fall out when it came.

Just as Combeferre finished stacking his books, Enjolras stopped his pacing and turned back to face him, eyes wide, jaw slack, hands clenched so tightly around his folded arms that the knuckles had blanched. "Combeferre… you're right. I'm being completely irrational. What on Earth is wrong with me?"

And there was the crux of the problem. Enjolras liked his life in clearly defined steps and patterns, each idea leading to the next in a clear, logical progression. It was one of many reasons why he and Combeferre had become such fast friends. They both liked their worlds neat, orderly, well-defined. The difference between them was that Combeferre could handle life when it wasn't -- he was able to roll with the punches. Enjolras, on the other hand, had never learned that valuable life skill. He'd been far too sheltered -- the only wild card he allowed in his deck was Courfeyrac… and even Courfeyrac had been tamed to a certain pattern of predictable behavior thanks to years of exposure to Enjolras' need for order.

Enjolras couldn't predict Rebus. It made him uneasy, made him prone to fly off towards the first thought which even vaguely resembled logic, even when said thought might not be logic, at all. And that was the problem, now. He'd been working this problem of getting Rebus to resume contact for too long, had been focused so intensely on finding _that_ solution that his brain had yet to catch up and inform him that life had moved him on to the next problem. For the first time in his life, Enjolras' ability to work a problem was failing him utterly… because Rebus wasn't a problem to be solved. He was a person and he refused to be neatly pinned down and categorized. And Enjolras wasn't prepared for that. But that was not something Combeferre could just tell him. That was a conclusion Enjolras had to reach for himself. So rather than spell it out for him, Combeferre simply handed Enjolras his phone and said, "Nothing is wrong with you, Enjolras. Growing up is hard work -- harder when you're coming to it so late."

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, lips parted on a half-begun word, eyes widening, then narrowing, then widening, again. Finally, his face relaxed into a smile. Opening his phone to the tumblr app, Enjolras reblogged his cafeteria post from Rebus, tags included, and added the following text underneath:

_~What's the matter with **you** , Rebus? Is the stage too small for you? Injustice knows no size limits, no boundaries. Are you worried that I've finally taken on a fight that I might win -- a fight I might win without **you**? …or are you afraid that I'm treading on territory a little too close to home for you? My bet is that you've eaten in that cafeteria, Rebus. My bet is you're afraid you might have to interact with me directly if you take this one on. So, go on. Call me out, Rebus._

_…I dare you.~_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lately, Rebus had been posting original content -- no captions, no bitingly sarcastic and brilliant tags. He'd simply been posting and letting the post speak for itself. And what he was posting… it spoke volumes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _September 15, 2013:_** So, I think it's safe to say at this point that I'll be posting once a month, if that. O_o;;; I'm so sorry about that, but between work and other fic exchanges, my time for FYFM is about to be severely curtailed. :-P On the upside, at least one (if not two) of the holiday exchanges which I'm planning to participate in will be Les Mis oriented. And the other is Yuletide, so that's its own fun. ^_~
> 
> But, don't worry! I will definitely still find time to work on this story. It's my baby, at this point, and I have a vested interest in seeing it finished. ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/61357723268/follow-you-follow-me-52831-words-by-eirenical). _(ETA: *sigh* Forgot to add the tumblr link. It's been that kind of day. Fixed now.)_
> 
> * * *

If Jehan hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Grantaire was trying to kill him. As it was, he was forced to concede that it might not be deliberate on Grantaire's part. Still, deliberate or not, Grantaire was going to be the death of him, nonetheless. His latest game with Enjolras seemed to involve taunting him as harshly and brutally as possible online while going out of his way to be kind to him in person. This would continue until Enjolras couldn't handle the strain of Rebus' taunting anymore and snapped at Grantaire, leading to a horrifically explosive argument. And beyond all reasonable expectation, Grantaire was _thriving_ on it. Jehan, on the other hand, felt like a tightly coiled bundle of exposed nerves.

So many hidden agendas. So many lies and machinations. So much that could go wrong with even the littlest misstep… Jehan wasn't built for that kind of strain. He liked his interactions straightforward, his relationships unjumbled and uncomplicated by spite. It was one of many reasons that he kept his assignations brief and fond, extricating himself before any unpleasantness could form.

Grantaire had never been like that. It was what made being friends with him such a risk. He reveled in his baser emotions, reveled in the darkness of the human spirit in ways that Jehan preferred not to even think about, much less experience.

…which wasn't to say he didn't. Jehan had his own share of darkness, his own poetic ennui which descended upon him from time to time, the difference being that he never went out seeking it the way Grantaire did his. He didn't make it his be-all, end-all goal in life. He couldn't even imagine living that way. Yet, here he was, living right in the midst of the very kind of chaotic darkness in which Grantaire found such satisfaction… because Grantaire was living there and Jehan would not leave his side. Not now. Not when he was still needed.

Grantaire had asked Jehan to meet him that morning for breakfast -- unusual enough, as Grantaire seldom rose before lunch if he had a choice in the matter -- and when Jehan arrived, Grantaire was paint-smeared from his latest work and positively giddy with joy. Seeing him like that had rocked Jehan deeply. His first thought had been that it had been far too long since he'd seen Grantaire that happy… his second that he was unsure that he ever _had_ seen Grantaire that happy.

Grantaire spent most of his time in Professor Mercado's studio these days, tinkering with some project or another -- oils, acrylics, charcoals, mixed media, photography… he was like a child let loose in a candy store all but making himself sick by gorging on sweets. His other classwork was slipping, Jehan knew, with him so distracted, and there was a fevered urgency to his joy, a sense of desperation, that Jehan didn't like. It was as though Grantaire was trying to fit as much experience, as much of his newly rediscovered passion for his art, into this semester as he could… as though it was all going to be ripped away from him come springtime.

And Jehan knew the system well enough to know that that was a very realistic fear. If they couldn't find a way for Grantaire to take classes safely under his own name, either the university would take this away from him… or his parents would. And Jehan had been down that road with Grantaire before. He refused to walk it, again. He'd kill Grantaire's parents himself before he'd let them take this away from him a second time. He would. He had it in him to do it, too. Jehan knew himself well enough to know that. He was capable of murder. If it would keep Grantaire safe and sane and happy… he was capable of far worse than that. But that was his own darkness and he kept it from Grantaire, becaue it was a weight that Grantaire definitely didn't need to carry.

Jehan had somehow kept his fears from Grantaire through breakfast, walking him back to the Professor's studio before leaving for his own pursuits. Though what pursuits would be safe or worthwhile with this anxiety churning in his stomach, Jehan had no idea. And after an hour or so of aimless wandering, all he'd managed to prove was that his feet, at least, had been acquainted with Grantaire for far too long. Musichetta took one look at his face when he appeared on her threshold, ushered him inside and silently put a glass of wine down on the table in front of him. He didn't even bother to protest the assumption.

An hour later, Jehan's glass was empty and several of his journal pages were full. He didn't even bother reading them, knowing all too well what kind of poetic misery he was capable of creating when his mind wandered these particular paths, especially when it did so alcohol-assisted.

Jehan had so tuned out the world, in fact, that it wasn't until he lifted his glass and found it full, once again, that he realized he had company. Tumbled brown curls, warm brown eyes, a body that Adonis, himself, would have killed for… Jehan smiled and lifted his glass in salute to his new companion. "My thanks."

Courfeyrac flipped his tray behind his back and dipped Jehan a small bow. "My pleasure." When he straightened, his eyes took on a worried look. "You just… you looked like you could use it and that's not a normal look for you. Everything all right?"

Jehan sighed, nodded his head, then paused and shook it, instead. "No, I don't suppose it is, but it's hardly even my business, so I'm not certain I feel comfortable making it yours."

After taking a quick glance around the bar and determining that all the other customers were in no need of refills at the moment, Courfeyrac slid into the seat across from Jehan and said quietly, "This is about Grantaire, then." When Jehan shrugged and took a sip of his wine, Courfeyrac continued. "I'm not sure it's my place to say… but does it have something to do with his usurping your good name to take a class?"

Jehan's eyes narrowed, and something dark and dangerous flashed in their depths as his ever-present protective instincts rose to the fore. "And what would you know about that?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture he'd no doubt picked up from his friend, Combeferre, Courfeyrac shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm going about this all wrong. Bahorel is in that class with him and he came to me because he noticed Grantaire was getting bullied by some of the less sensitively inclined jocks in the class with them and he wanted to know if I knew anything about it before he got himself involved." He sighed, lowered his hand. "I'm assuming from your reaction that any usurping of your name has been done with your knowledge and blessing, and for good reason, then?" When Jehan cautiously nodded, Courfeyrac relaxed, lips stretching into a smile. "There has _got_ to be a story behind that one."

Allowing himself to relax, as well, Jehan took another sip of his wine. "Of course, there is. But, as I said, it's barely even any of _my_ business and the barely is only because he needed another name to accomplish the deed and mine was most conveniently at hand."

Shaking his head at Jehan's obstinacy Courfeyrac turned up his hands in defeat. "All right, all right. It's none of my beeswax and I'll stay out of it until you--" At Jehan's narrowed eyes, Courfeyrac hastily corrected, "…until _Grantaire_ decides it is. OK?"

Mollified, but somehow unsatisfied, Jehan nodded. They sat in silence for a time after that, Jehan idly swirling his glass in one hand and flipping pages in his journal with the other, and Courfeyrac scanning the bar for anyone who might need something. Finally Jehan broke the silence with a nonsequitur of a conversational gambit. "I thought you were helping out at the Musain…?"

Courfeyrac smiled, shrugged. "Eh. I am. Figured if I was helping out Eponine, it was only fair to make the offer to Musichetta, too. She's just as short-handed come exam weeks and she doesn't even have a Gavroche to help out. And before you suggest Joly and Bossuet… let's just say that though they love her and they mean well, they're not the most useful hands in a bar. I've got the time, so I figured… why not, you know? I hang out here enough, anyway. I may as well be useful."

Jehan's drawn together brows softened at that, his face relaxing into a true smile. "You're a good man, Courfeyrac -- a good man and a good friend. And I don't say that lightly."

"No… I don't imagine you do," Courfeyrac said. 

Jehan was enchanted to note the light blush now staining Courfeyrac's cheeks at his praise. It was adorable, a deep contrast to his usual boasting pride. Jehan resolved to try to make him blush so more often. They sat in silence for a few minutes more, until Musichetta waved to them from the bar. Courfeyrac smiled and stood, tipping an imaginary hat in Jehan's direction. Before walking away, however, he said, "Jehan, I understand how protective you are of Grantaire." At Jehan's skeptical look, he added, "I have a friend I'm similarly protective of, so I really do get it. I just… I know how lonely it can be on that rampart by yourself, OK? If you need anything, even if it's just a glass of wine and a friendly ear to commiserate with… I'm here."

It was nearly another week before Jehan got up the courage to take advantage of that open offer for his own sake, and it took another week and a panicked Grantaire climbing up one side of him and down the other while he fretted over Professor Mercado's gentle suggestion that he start a portfolio for testing up to the next level classes, to take advantage of Courfeyrac's offer of trust on his behalf, as well. 

It turned out to be one of the best decisions Jehan ever made. Because Courfeyrac proved to have not only a vastly sympathetic ear… but a solution to the problem. He introduced Jehan to Bahorel… and to Feuilly. And once they'd hammered out a tentative plan between them, for the first time in years, Jehan allowed himself to believe that it really might all turn out all right.

* * *

Enjolras couldn't get out of class fast enough. Courfeyrac grabbed at his sleeve as he went past, a startled exclamation on his lips, before he gave up on getting Enjolras to stop and instead turned to packing his books as quickly as possible. Enjolras paid him no mind. There was a new post from Rebus and Enjolras wanted to be free of the crowd around him before reading it.

Once outside, he pulled up his tumblr app, went straight to Rebus' most recent post… and stared, immediately torn between the desire to smash it against the concrete, the desire to laugh himself sick, and the desire to congratulate Rebus for sheer artistic brilliance. Rebus was not the kind of man to post his own content. His modus operandi was reblogging content from other users and adding his own snide commentary. He wasn't a creator. That wasn't his way. After his resumed contact with Enjolras a few weeks ago, however, that seemed to be changing.

Lately, Rebus had been posting original content -- no captions, no bitingly sarcastic and brilliant tags. He'd simply been posting and letting the post speak for itself. And what he was posting… it spoke volumes.

This latest post was a political cartoon, as most of the others had been, and, also like those others, its subject was Enjolras. In this cartoon, he was dressed in high-waisted black pants, black boots, a white shirt, a cravat, and a short red jacket. There was a red, white and blue sash wrapped around his waist and it and his hair were streaming in the wind. He looked like he could have stepped straight out of the Revolution… except that he was tiny. Stubby, round and… cute, like some roly-poly baby animal and with as much authority as you might expect from one. He was standing atop a cafeteria table and brandishing a stalk of celery bigger than he while shouting to a rapt crowd, "Vive le végétarisme! Vive la nourriture casher! Vive le végétalisme! Libérez la cafétéria de la tyrannie américaine!"

Here was the trick, though: Rebus was somehow posting these things from another account and was waiting until they gathered momentum -- 1,000 notes or so -- before reblogging them from his own tumblr. The only reason Enjolras even knew they were Rebus originals was by the artist's watermark -- it was difficult to miss the ornately drawn 'R' in the corner of each piece and what else could that 'R' mean? By the time Enjolras saw this particular cartoon, someone had helpfully added a caption translating the French to English: _~"Long live vegetarianism! Long live kosher food! Long live veganism! Free the cafeteria from American tyranny!"~_

Someone else had added a less helpful caption which read, _~"OMG! That's exactly how he looks when he gets all worked up about something or other -- all red-faced and irate and huffy… it just makes you want to cuddle him, doesn't it?~_ Eyes narrowing at the username attached to that particular reblog, Enjolras resolved to strangle Courfeyrac later -- first for the comment and second for not telling him about this post when he'd first seen it.

There was another caption beneath that one which redeemed it -- and Enjolras recognized Combeferre's username this time and resolved to do something especially nice for him in return -- _~The only reason he becomes so irate is because some spend more time observing what he looks like than hearing what he says.~_

The comments degenerated from there. And underneath it all, the coup de grace… Rebus' own tags.

_~#so how exactly IS this fight going without me enjolras? #having any difficulties with people taking you seriously? #i mean… just look at you #who would take a face like that seriously? #i've seen kittens who look more fearsome #then again #from what i hear #you ARE a kitten at heart #perhaps that's how i should refer to you from now on #'mon pauvre petit chat' #'my poor little kitten' #what do you think? #has a nice ring to it doesn't it? #;D~_

"What's wrong, kitten?"

Enjolras flung his head up, eyes wide and disoriented at the abrupt conjunction of online and real world, to meet a pair of mischievous brown eyes bare inches from his and even now crinkling at the corners with mirth. It took another moment for Enjolras to reengage his brain and respond. "Courfeyrac, I swear, if you had anything to do with his latching onto that nickname, I will break into your apartment and do something unpleasant to you in your sleep, 21 years of friendship be damned."

Courfeyrac immediately held up his hands in a placating gesture and those mischievous eyes took on a hint of deeper warmth. "Whoa, there. I had nothing to do with it, but how could I not take advantage of someone else noting and exploiting your resemblance to a cat? It was such an unexpectedly pleasant surprise to have that outside validation of my own observations that I just couldn't resist." His smiled widened. "Besides, as you were staring down at your phone, you looked just like a puffed up cat -- complete with angrily lashing tail," and with that, he gave Enjolras' pulled back hair a light tug. "If it's getting so unruly back there that you have to tie it up, then aren't you about due to get that mane of yours cut, kitten?"

Batting Courfeyrac away from his hair, and pointedly ignoring Courfeyrac's resultant snickering at that action, Enjolras debated dignifying that remark with a response. While he did normally let his hair grow a bit over the winter to help protect his neck from the cold, it was getting a bit out of hand. He needed a haircut. Desperately. But there was no way in fuck that he was admitting to Courfeyrac that the only reason he was even putting it off was because of a conversation he'd overheard between Grantaire and Jean Prouvaire after a meeting the week before...

_"Jesus, Jehan, did you see him tonight? The way the light played off that hair of his? Like a halo. A fucking avenging angel, all wrath and justice and righteous fury… My angel."_

Grantaire had been drunk and Jean Prouvaire had hauled him out of the Corinthe with a resigned air, shooting daggers at Enjolras with his eyes the entire way, but still, Grantaire's words had stayed with him. Enjolras had above average looks and well knew it, had even taken advantage of it from time to time, but Enjolras had never bothered to worry or dwell on his appearance for its own sake. It was just the outer shell of himself and mattered far less than what was within him. Only now, having heard that, for the first time in his life, Enjolras wondered how he must look from behind someone else's eyes. _An avenging angel, Grantaire? If that's how you see me, no wonder we quarrel so badly. How the reality of me must disappoint you…_

Turning to regard Courfeyrac as he resumed his walk and Courfeyrac fell into step beside him, he said, "I just haven't had time. I'll take care of it soon."

Soon… but maybe not just yet. Rebus' most recent posts had convinced Enjolras he must be someone close to their group in some way, was perhaps even someone he'd met -- Enjolras was self-aware enough to know that that thought, and not the brisk pace of his walk, was far more likely to blame for his increased heart rate -- someone he'd shaken hands with after a meeting, stood with at a rally, sat beside in class… or perhaps he was just someone who frequented the Corinthe or the Musain when they held their meetings. No matter which, it was now painfully obvious that Rebus was someone close to them. So, Enjolras wasn't going to cut his hair just yet. Not until he'd had a chance to see if Rebus, like Grantaire, had been close enough to notice it. Not until he'd had a chance to find out if Rebus saw him as Grantaire did and, if so… what he would do about it.

* * *

"Not everyone fits into neat little boxes of gender and sexuality and your implication that they should is one of the most insulting statements I've ever heard almost come out of your mouth. For the life of me I can't see how you've managed to remain this naïve -- isn't Courfeyrac your best friend? One would think _he_ , at least, would have had the good sense to correct that kind of thinking in you by now."

Cosette's eyes widened as Enjolras froze in his speech-making, fists clenching, breath quickening and eyes alternately widening and narrowing as he fought to deliver a civil response to that salvo. Beside her, Eponine rolled her eyes, knocked back the rest of her bourbon, and said, "Good grief, I thought we were past all this shit."

Sighing heavily as she stirred her own drink, Cosette said, "Apparently not." Swiveling her stool around to face Eponine, Cosette held out her glass for it to be topped off. Eponine did it without question. "The most ridiculous thing," Cosette said, "Is that they're arguing just for the sake of arguing. That isn't what Enjolras meant and we _all_ know that, so why even pick that fight?"

"Because this fight isn't about gender or sexuality or any of the other topics over which they've ranged for the last few weeks. And until they admit why there is discord between them, it will not be resolved."

Eponine leaned forwards, crossing her arms over the bar as she eyed the new arrival. "You've noticed that, too, huh?" All three winced as the two combatants squared off, bare inches between them, one furiously blushing and protesting his innocence, the other getting so far into his personal as to force him to give ground and back away. Neither was even making an attempt at indoor voices, anymore. 

Eponine made a frantic gesture at Bahorel, still sitting quietly in his corner with Feuilly, to get up and do something to break it up. Bahorel simply shook his head and raised his hands in the universal gesture for "I'm staying the hell out of this." Cosette couldn't blame him. Turning back to the one who'd walked up to join she and Eponine, she said, "So, what do you think they're really fighting about?" She had her own suspicions, of course, but she was uncomfortable sharing them in public until certain secrets -- secrets which were not hers to share -- were out in the open.

Marius sighed and sat down beside her, as usual careful to keep one seat between them should Eponine choose to make use of it -- a gentleman even under duress. He forestalled her question by ordering a drink, blushing when Eponine snickered at the request, and stammering out an explanation about how after this debacle, he anticipated several of their number getting thoroughly inebriated and needing rides home. Just as he was starting to get himself truly worked up in his embarrassment, Cosette reached a hand up and patted his cheek -- now as red as the drink he'd ordered -- then said, "Marius, relax. It's a good idea. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

As Marius calmed, Eponine smiled, eyes ducking up shyly from beneath her bangs as she handed over his drink and then waved away his money. When he protested, she simply pointed to the rather prominent sign above the bar which said, "The house prefers you live to drink another day; all designated drivers drink free." At his grateful smile, her own cheeks pinked, but she brushed it off with a gruff, "Eh, it's cute. I haven't made so many Shirley Temples since Gavroche figured out that a bottle of IBC looks just like a bottle of beer in dim lighting. Seems I miss it."

As Marius left to return to Courfeyrac's side to try to prevent his distraught friend from trying to jump into the middle of this fight, Cosette turned to Eponine and lifted one eyebrow. When Eponine's blush returned and deepened, Cosette laughed. It was a low laugh, deep in her throat, and husky -- a bedroom laugh. Though Eponine swatted her with the rag she'd taken up to wipe down the bar, Cosette would not be deterred. She caught Eponine's hand and placed a soft kiss in the tense palm. "You still have a bit of a crush there, my love. It's showing."

Eponine's eyes widened and she shook her head sharply. "I do not!" exploded from her lips before it could register that such a quick denial would accomplish the exact opposite effect of what she wished. Miserably she added -- though said addition would further that opposite effect but unable to help herself -- "It isn't what it looks like."

Shifting her grip up Eponine's arm, Cosette placed her next delicate kiss on the inside of Eponine's wrist before lifting her gaze and offering a gentle smile. "It's OK. I understand."

Eponine pulled her arm back as though she'd been burned and hissed out, "No, you don't. It's stupid, OK? _I'm_ stupid. I have a better life than I ever dreamed I could have. I have Gavroche. I have _you_. I have your parents, who are just as wonderful as mine are awful. I have everything I could ever want… and I _still_ go doe-eyed when that man so much as opens his fucking mouth to sneeze." She threw the rag behind her into the washbin and crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "It's just a stupid crush, nothing more than physical attraction. I should be able to get over it."

After taking a quick glance behind her to see that everyone else was still occupied by the spectacle of that ever-escalating argument -- and how exactly had they gotten on the topic of discussing the Torah and the Talmud, anyway? -- Cosette hitched herself up onto the bar and over it and pulled a steel-cable taut Eponine into her arms. After a few minutes of Cosette's soothing hands running through her hair and down her back, Eponine finally relaxed. Cosette then spoke, quietly, gently, into her ear. "It's not just physical attraction, Eponine. The man is adorable; he has all the appeal of a tumbling kitten and the earnestness of an adolescent Labrador." She leaned back to look straight into Eponine's wary eyes. "And it's all genuine. He genuinely cares about his friends. He genuinely is that awkwardly well-meaning. There isn't a false bone in his body." She smiled. "You aren't the only one who finds that attractive, my love."

"But… but, _you_ and _us_ and what am I supposed to do with--!"

Cosette cut off that building wail with a kiss before pulling Eponine back into her arms and resuming her gentle stroking. "You just answered your own question. _You_ will not do anything." When Eponine pulled back to meet Cosette's gaze, Cosette smiled -- and that smile had more in common with that of a cat who'd finally gotten that damned noisy lark than with the sweet, innocent girl everyone thought her to be -- and finished with, " _We_ , however… will do plenty."

Eponine blinked, taking a moment to process what she'd heard before turning to take in Marius' form bent over his table as he spoke urgently to Courfeyrac. Her lips slowly stretched into a smile to match Cosette's -- the wolf to Cosette's panther. Nodding, she said, "He has been in awe of you since minute one. That could work."

Pressing one last kiss into the column of Eponine's neck, Cosette said, "Don't sell yourself short. I've been taking him out and about the city -- oh, don't glare at me so, Eponine, it was all those art exhibits and fundraisers you never have patience for -- and should I tell you how often our conversations wind their way back to you and his incredibly deep respect and appreciation for you? Because I will. Gladly. Your virtues are one of our most revisited topics of conversation and his eagerness to hover around said topic warmed me to him faster than any action he could ever have taken." Smirking as she worked her way back out from behind the bar, Cosette added, "In fact, I could see us spending many a pleasant evening with we two worshipping you like thralls -- perhaps fanning you and feeding you grapes, as well."

In response to that, Eponine's blushing scowl finally broke into a smile and she reached out and smacked Cosette's behind just before she emerged from behind the bar. The exaggerated 'yipe' Cosette was planning to let out, however, turned into a real one as the sound of breaking glass accompanied Eponine's playful swat. Before Cosette had a chance to truly register what was happening, Eponine's simmering irritation with the happenings in her bar had transmuted to rage and launched her over the bar and into the tightening crowd. "I have had it with you two! Back the fuck away from each other!"

The two turned to stare at her in utter bewilderment until she growled and gave them both a shove to get them apart and out of her way. "Which one of you broke my fucking glass?" At the resounding silence she received in answer, Eponine repeated herself, slowly and distinctly, as one might speak to a disobedient child and then added, "You both know the rules. You break a glass, you pay for a glass. So which of you owes me for this one?"

Just as the crowd around them started to shuffle nervously about and Enjolras was about to huff himself up into a state of truly righteous indignation, a gentle hand tapped Eponine's shoulder and held out a $20 bill. She turned to find an apologetic Joly holding a mortified Bossuet close to his side and practically melting into his shadow. Her angry posture deflated in a heartbeat and she held out a hand to grip Bossuet's shoulder. "Oh… honey, I'm sorry. I thought it was these two knuckleheads. Let me get your change, all right?"

Bossuet sighed and miserably shook his head. "Just keep the change, OK? I'll start up a tab or something." Once he'd gotten that out, he fled back to his table, hands and legs clasped as tightly to him and as far from anything breakable as he could manage. Cosette's heart clenched at the sight. Bossuet was so good-natured, so sweet… and so very accident prone. He hadn't deserved to get caught a glancing blow by Eponine's ire -- and judging from the look of guilt sprawled across Eponine's face, she knew it, too.

When Eponine returned to the bar to put the twenty in the register, Cosette stayed just long enough to squeeze her hand, then got up to go join Joly and Bossuet. She didn't say a word, merely raised an eyebrow and waited.

Eventually, arm once again tightening around Bossuet's shoulders, Joly raised his gaze to meet Cosette's and said, "It's been so tense, lately." He sighed, deliberately stopped himself from wiping at a miniscule spot on the table with a Lysol wipe he'd pulled out from who-knew-where. "Musichetta banished us both from the Corinthe until we'd regained our senses."

Cosette prudently decided that she wasn't going to ask. Instead she asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Joly wrapped his arms around Bossuet's, smiled when Bossuet took his hands in a firm grip with his free one, anchoring them both. Eventually, he said, "Just… talk to him? Maybe he'll listen to reason if it's coming from you. The one person who has always been able to calm him in the past…"

Cosette finished, "…isn't here." She sighed. "I make no promises, Joly, except that I'll try."

"That's all I can ask."

Cosette rose from the table and turned to see what everyone else had been doing in her moment of distraction. Enjolras was deep in conversation with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, occasionally shooting death threat-level glares over his shoulder. Marius had retreated to the bar where Eponine was keeping him well-supplied with Maraschino cherries and topping off his Shirley Temple whenever he put it down. Bahorel and Feuilly were sitting in their corner, watching the festivities as though it were a sports event. Feuilly she'd expected that of -- he tended not to get too directly involved with the student members of Les Amis and he'd long ago announced that this whole feud was his idea of a romantic comedy and far more entertaining than the crap they passed off as such on television -- but Bahorel… he was usually more wont to jump in and help. That he was keeping back from getting involved was telling of to exactly how ridiculous an extreme the situation had escalated.

Still… someone had to do something. Taking a deep breath, Cosette approached the lone figure at the corner table. He was staring fixedly at Enjolras, blue eyes blazing with anger, hands flexed so hard against the wood of the table that her own ached in sympathy. At her approach, those blue eyes shifted, alighted on her… and he _growled_. Oh for the love of…

Cosette sat herself down to deliberately block his sight of Enjolras, covered one of his flexed and quivering hands with her own and said simply, "Jean Prouvaire… we need to talk."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me you love him."
> 
> Grantaire stared at Jehan for a minute, completely uncomprehending. Jehan's voice… fuck, he sounded so angry. His eyes were ice, his blonde hair flaming red as it shone with the dying sunset outside. His hands were out to the sides, flexed so hard to keep from making fists that Grantaire shrank back, involuntarily, crowding against the easel and paints behind him. When Jehan took another step forward and repeated his demand, Grantaire backed up further still -- straight into the easel and paints -- knocking them all to the floor. Colors ran in rivers around his feet, lapping at his battered sneakers, mixing in dizzying swirls and ribbons as they dripped across the linoleum. Grantaire could do nothing but stare at them in sick fascination, couldn't even find his voice to respond as Jehan said, again, pleading this time…
> 
> "R, please. Tell me you love him. Tell me he's worth it. _Tell me._ Because if you don't… if he isn't… I swear by all that's holy, I think I'm going to fucking kill him some day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _October 25, 2013:_** I promised I wouldn't abandon you, and I haven't! I apologize for the slightly-longer-than-the-promised-month wait. October turned into one doozy of a month and half the time I didn't even have the energy to figure out if I was coming or going, much less do anything of any substance besides work. Being that exhausted that regularly tends to take a toll on my ability to create and I got stuck. Fortunately, though, I appear to finally be *unstuck*. So, that's a relief, since I have three exchange stories to write in addition to keeping up on this one. O_o;;; And working three jobs. And taking a trip out of the country. And I CAN DO IT. ^_^ You'll see. *ahem*
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy? ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/65094571454/follow-you-follow-me-59655-words-by-eirenical).
> 
> * * *

This late at night, there was no sound in the studio but that of a solitary brush making soft shushing noises against canvas. The sound was soothing, almost hypnotic in a way, the motion accompanying the sound more soothing, still. Dip brush. Put brush to canvas. Make those soft shushing noises. Then watch as art magically appears. Grantaire still marveled, sometimes, at how that happened. There was a large part of him which still believed that this could only be a dream, that such beauty couldn't possibly come from inside him.

…but it unquestionably did.

And that was the strangest thing of all.

Beyond all expectation, beyond all reason, Grantaire had been given the freedom to do what he'd never been free to do before -- to create. He couldn't recall a time when he'd ever been happier… and that was the cruelest truth of all. He'd never been happier… and he'd never be this happy, ever again. He was going to lose it all. Tomorrow, next week, next month, next semester… he had no idea when the blow would come; he only knew with certainty that it would. Professor Mercado would find him out, would turn him out of this lovely studio with its southern exposure and its myriad artistic tools, would turn him out of his high esteem, as well… and that would be worse. He would become just one more person to whom Grantaire was a disappointment. And Grantaire was sure that seeing that look of disappointment in the eyes of one who'd believed in him… this time it would finish the job, for sure. Grantaire wouldn't survive that.

Until then, though… until then, Grantaire would paint. He would sculpt. He would draw. He would sketch. He would do portraits and landscapes, political cartoons and abstracts. He would pour his heart into his art in the hopes that something of it would last beyond that final, soul-killing blow. So, he did. He locked himself away in this studio for hours each day, forgoing everything else which might eat away at the precious time he had left, even as he felt that time trickling away like sand through his fingers.

Grantaire was a man edging ever so steadily towards the point of no return, the point at which he would lose so much of himself that there would be nothing left to save. Yet, even as he hurtled headlong towards his own destruction, something held him back from taking that final step. Some _one_ held him back. Enjolras. Grantaire hadn't even been aware of granting Enjolras that much power over him, hadn't planned it or wanted it. This had started out as such a silly little infatuation, a lust-driven need to see if those glorious blonde curls were as soft as they looked, those lips as kissable. When had it turned into this? Enjolras was now the first person since Jehan to whom Grantaire had granted that kind of power over his choices, and it scared him, even as it enticed him…

…for Enjolras was yet another person destined to look upon him forever with only disappointment in his shining blue eyes.

Grantaire lifted his brush, again, dipped it into the blue paint and touched it to the canvas. Blue. Endless oceans of blue, skies of blue -- blue, blue, blue, blue… the Xanax had been blue. It had been a paler blue than Enjolras' eyes, but blue it had been, nonetheless. Grantaire could lose himself in those eyes far easier than he had in that bottle of pills…

A door slamming open jerked Grantaire out his thoughts and back to the present, and he whirled to face the unexpected sound, heart pounding.

"Tell me you love him."

Grantaire stared at Jehan for a minute, completely uncomprehending. Jehan's voice… fuck, he sounded so angry. His eyes were ice, his blonde hair flaming red as it shone with the dying sunset outside. His hands were out to the sides, flexed so hard to keep from making fists that Grantaire shrank back, involuntarily, crowding against the easel and paints behind him. When Jehan took another step forward and repeated his demand, Grantaire backed up further still -- straight into the easel and paints -- knocking them all to the floor. Colors ran in rivers around his feet, lapping at his battered sneakers, mixing in dizzying swirls and ribbons as they dripped across the linoleum. Grantaire could do nothing but stare at them in sick fascination, couldn't even find his voice to respond as Jehan said, again, pleading this time…

"R, please. Tell me you love him. Tell me he's worth it. _Tell me._ Because if you don't… if he isn't… I swear by all that's holy, I think I'm going to fucking kill him some day."

_~When your heart skips a beat… the world doesn't pause. It fucking ends.~_

_~Jehan… falling in love feels like dying.~_

Grantaire looked up finally, sick dread settling in the pit of his stomach at Jehan's crazed expression. Not many had ever had the opportunity to see beneath Jehan's gentle exterior to the hard steel which lay beneath. Grantaire had, so Grantaire knew. Jehan had a temper -- a violent one -- and it came roaring to the surface whenever someone he cared about was in danger. Grantaire knew that, had relied upon it ever since he was fifteen. And because Jehan knew how Grantaire relied upon him, he had taken it upon himself to be worthy of that faith. And Jehan had yet to let him down. So, whenever Grantaire felt his own judgment was unreliable, he fell back on Jehan’s. No one knew better than Jehan what Grantaire would do were he that badly hurt, and no one knew better than Grantaire what _Jehan_ would do if he felt Grantaire was in danger of being that badly hurt. Jehan didn't bluff. Jehan never bluffed. And if Jehan was against Enjolras enough to declare intent… Was Jehan even capable of leashing his completely justified anger at how Enjolras had treated Grantaire? Would he even be willing to try? And why had he even put the decision in Grantaire's lap? Why choose now to let Grantaire's judgment override his own?

Grantaire whimpered. He was going to lose his art. It was only a matter of time. He was going to lose Enjolras, too -- the minute he was discovered as Rebus, the minute Enjolras found out how he'd been lied to, the minute he found out that his idolized, beloved Rebus was only Grantaire, the cynical drunk with whom he did nothing but bitterly argue until this most recent game… Grantaire would lose him, too.

Grantaire could survive losing Enjolras. Somehow. He'd lost loves before. He could survive losing his art, too -- he'd made promises to that effect upon which he wouldn't renege. But, Jehan… Grantaire couldn't lose him. He couldn't. It would kill him, faster and surer than a handful of pills. He whimpered, again, finally gave Jehan the only answer he could force out of a constricted throat.

"Jehan, I think I'm dying." Grantaire's breath caught; his hand rose to clutch at his chest, as though that might somehow contain the pain. "I think… I think I'm already dead."

The ice in Jehan's eyes thawed instantly at those words and became tears, spilling over to slide silently down his face as he took in the meaning behind them. Jehan closed the distance between them in hurried steps, mindless of the paint still streaked across the floor, to take Grantaire in his arms. They clung to each other like that for minutes, hours -- long past the time when the sunset had faded and night had risen to take its place.

When Grantaire finally drew back and wiped at his own wet eyes, he said, "I'm going to lose everything. I just know it. This…" He waved a hand around the studio. "This can't last. And Enjolras? Who am I kidding, Jehan? He doesn't love me. He _can't_ love me, not as I am, and why would he even try? You… You're all I have. And I trust your judgment far better than I do my own. If you truly think he's that bad an idea, I'll make an end to it. I'd rather lose him, I'd rather lose my art… I'd rather lose my _arms_ than lose you."

Jehan shook his head, eyes miserable and still tear-bright. He reached up then and pulled Grantaire's face down towards his, planted a salt-tinged kiss on his lips. "You won't. I won't leave you. I couldn't leave you. You're all I have, too." That assurance imparted, Jehan stepped back out of Grantaire's arms and turned towards the abandoned painting. He lifted a finger, gently traced the curve of a brow, the fall of one lock of blonde hair. He sighed. "I'm not so certain that my judgment is as sound as you assume, Grantaire. Enjolras… he infuriates me. He can be so arrogant, so blind, so… _privileged_ ," Jehan spat out that last as though it had left a bad taste in his mouth, "That sometimes I just want to hit him and keep hitting until I knock some sense into the big, useless brain of his." He let out a self-deprecating laugh, "But, I'm a bit possessive where you're concerned, R. And he hurt you. I don't think I'm capable of forgiving him for that, or of seeing past it to his better qualities." Jehan flicked his finger against the portrait's nose. "But, I read his tumblr posts and I watch him in meetings. And I don't think he's as blind to you as you think. He sees you. He knows you. He just doesn't know that he does. And that's something. It's a start."

Heart still trapped somewhere in his throat, Grantaire couldn't respond. Meeting Jehan's solemn eyes with a sick smile, Grantaire simply nodded.

Jehan gave him back a similarly sick smile, then said, "Come on. Let's get this place cleaned up and then go get a drink. I don't know about you… but I could sure as fuck use one."

* * *

"There you go. One foot, and… the other foot. Good. Now… whoops!"

Grantaire caught Jehan as he tripped over the jeans Grantaire was trying to help him remove. It would have been comical if Grantaire didn't feel so guilty about it. It was his fault that his best friend had tried to drink himself into a stupor that night. Trying to deal with the fall out was giving Grantaire a much closer look than he'd ever wanted to have of what it must be like for Jehan to deal with _him_ when drunk. And he didn't like the picture that was being painted.

"I've got you. Jehan, I've got you. Come on. Let's just get your shirt off and-- No! That's not-- Damn it, come on! Help me out a little, would you?"

A pause.

A soft smirk.

"I meant help me getting _you_ out of your clothes, Jehan. I don't need any help getting out of mine, and besides… you're nowhere near sober enough to accomplish whatever it is that you're plotting there. Let's just get you undressed and into bed, OK? Anything else can wait until you're sober."

Jehan released his hold on the fly of Grantaire's jeans and settled back with a pout, muttering, "Spoilsport," under his breath. Grantaire simply smiled and ran a hand through Jehan's tousled and sweaty blonde hair, leaned down to place a soft kiss on his brow. "You'll thank me in the morning, love, and you know it." 

Jehan mumbled a few more incoherent words before letting Grantaire finish removing his shirt and tumbling backwards onto the bed. Grantaire eased him under the covers, propped him up with pillows so he wouldn't topple onto his back, and moved the waste bin to within easy reach of the bed. As he turned to leave, mind already moving ahead towards the next bit of business he had to take care of before turning in, himself, for the night, Jehan reached out and caught his hand, bringing him back to the present moment. Wistful blue eyes looked up from under an already wincing brow, and Jehan said plaintively, "Don't leave?"

Grantaire leaned down, placed a soft kiss on Jehan's knuckles. He was still baffled by how he had ended up the sober one tonight, couldn't understand how it had ended up he taking care of and reassuring Jehan instead of the other way around. His life was getting ready to fall apart around his ears. He was going to lose _everything_ … and still… somehow he knew it was all going to be all right.

_~I won't leave you. I couldn't leave you. You're all I have, too.~_

Three sentences. Just thirteen little words. And all of Grantaire's fears had melted away under their power. He had Jehan. He would _always_ have Jehan. And whatever he faced, so long as they did it together… they would win. Jehan and R against the world. They each took care of their own: Jehan would take care of him, and Grantaire would take care of Jehan. It felt good to remember that. If felt as though it had been too long since he last had.

Grantaire wouldn't forget again.

Planting another soft kiss, this time on Jehan's cheek, Grantaire answered him, "I won't leave you, Jehan. Never. I just have a few details to take care of before I come to bed, OK?"

Jehan's scowl lacked all of its usual force when it pulled his lips downwards, but his disappointment was clear as day when he spoke. "Things like taking care of Enjolras?"

Grantaire reached out, tweaked Jehan's nose and said, "No, silly. Things like grabbing the aspirin and setting the timer on the coffee pot for the morning." His smile widened as he tightened his hold on Jehan's hand, widened further as Jehan tentatively smiled in return. "In short? Things like taking care of you."

The next time Grantaire tried to leave, Jehan let him. He set up the coffee pot and set the timer to start the pot at 10 -- enough time for them both to sleep in, but not so late that Jehan would complain of wasting the day -- then stripped out of his jeans and sweater and grabbed the bottle of aspirin and a glass of water.

He left his phone in the living room.

Responding to Enjolras' most recent desperate bid for Rebus' attention could wait another day. It could wait a week. It could wait a month.

…it could wait forever.

If that was what Jehan needed, then that was what Grantaire would do.

* * *

"Jehan… Jehan, wake up!"

Instantly put on alert by the urgency in Grantaire's voice and the long-fingered hands shaking his shoulder, Jehan came awake all at once, sitting bolt upright in bed and desperately trying to identify the source of the problem so he could respond to it. It took Grantaire tugging on his arm and all but crowing out, "Come _on_. You have to see!" before Jehan's sleep-and-hangover-addled brain was able to deduce that the urgency in Grantaire's voice wasn't due to fear, but to excitement. He stopped struggling, then, and started actively helping, just as eager to see what had put that joyfully excited tone in Grantaire's voice as Grantaire was to show it to him.

Grantaire paused only long enough to let Jehan step into his slippers then tugged him out of the bedroom into the overly bright living room. _Very_ overly bright. Jehan winced and shielded his eyes. What was wrong with the--?

Oh.

Ooooooooooh.

Oh, that was _lovely_.

They went straight to the large bay window to look out -- that window took up nearly the entire outside wall of the living room and was the primary reason why Jehan refused to give up this apartment, though it was small and in a less than savory area of town. It was also across the street from a beautiful park and the deep seat in this window was perfect for enjoying the view… and Jehan could take care of himself. Pressing himself to the glass, now, Jehan laughed in pure delight. Hang the hangover. Fuck the light sensitivity that came along with it. He could not tear his eyes away from the sight.

Quietly, reverently, still with that innocently joyous tone in his voice, Grantaire said, "Jehan… it's _snowing_."

When Jehan turned to look at him, their gazes locked and equally wide grins split their faces. Jehan echoed back, more enchanted by Grantaire's delight than he ever could have been by a simple snowfall, "It's snowing. Grantaire… it's snowing!"

For one breathless moment, all either could do was stare at each other like idiots, large, dopey smiles covering their faces. Jehan forgot that, sometimes, how easy it could be to make Grantaire happy -- a chubby and clumsy puppy, a particularly soft and warm hoodie, a pile of chocolate chip pancakes. For all of Grantaire's cynicism, at heart he had once been a happy little boy and cynicism was still a coat that didn't entirely fit him well. Jehan hoped it never would. Then he would lose out on the moments like this -- moments that were well worth fighting through the hangover to end all hangovers to enjoy -- and he was going to enjoy this one for all he was worth. Leaning in close enough to touch his forehead to Grantaire's, he suggested softly, "There's just enough piled up on the ground for a decent snowman…?"

Grantaire huffed out a soft laugh, eyes dancing with mirth and his smile getting somehow wider still. "And snow angels."

"And snowballs." Jehan's smile turned feral as he said that last. As Grantaire's eyes sparked, filled with plans to accept that challenge, Jehan added, "Winner gets to choose the movie."

Grantaire lifted an eyebrow as he repeated back, "…movie? What movie?"

Straightening and already starting to strip out of his tee-shirt as he headed towards his bedroom to dress for a day outside, Jehan shot back, "The one we're going to watch when we come back inside, cold and wet, and settle by the fireplace to warm up."

Laughing, Grantaire followed Jehan to go steal a few extra layers of his own. "Oh… _that_ movie. Of course. And you're on."

* * *

_Number 27... number 27... number 27... ah!_ Bahorel put his foot carefully on the brake as he rolled past the specified number, not eager to skid on the packed down snow which had clearly not seen a plow all day. This snowstorm had caught the city with its proverbial pants down, though Bahorel was of the opinion that it shouldn't have. Snow had been falling later and later in the season for several years, now, and the days of the worst snowstorms happening in late December and early January when the students were gone was a thing of the past. It wasn't uncommon to see snow late in February, now, and it wasn't even Valentine's, yet.

Regardless, the storm had come and had dropped a good two feet of snow on the city. Those manning the plows were doing the best they could and neighborly people with trucks that could handle it had been latching up plows to their trucks and helping to dig out their own streets to handle the overflow. Bahorel had a tendency to pick up a lot of odd jobs around the town -- it was how he'd met Feuilly several years back, working a sanitation job -- anything he could to keep himself enrolled in school. He enjoyed his classes, enjoyed the atmosphere of the college life, even if he had yet to decide to what aim to put his studies. He enjoyed himself. He learned. So long as he wasn't a burden on anyone, who was to complain?

So, today, he had been a snowplow driver. He'd checked the maps for his friends' homes and apartments, wanting to make sure that they were on the schedule to get cleared today. Most were. Only two weren't. Musichetta's street wasn't scheduled for plowing until late that evening, but when he'd called, he'd found her already tucked in with Bossuet and Joly, as she'd apparently been since the day before. Bahorel prudently decided not to ask how that was going. Most days the three got along perfectly well, but chosen closeness was a different thing altogether than forced closeness and the three were new enough to the altered status of their relationships that that forced closeness might not settle well… and Bahorel had no desire to be on the receiving end of Musichetta's sharp tongue if things were going poorly.

The only other one of Les Amis whose street had not been plowed was Jean Prouvaire. Bahorel still didn't know him well -- Prouvaire tended to stick pretty firmly to Grantaire's side of the Amis crowd -- but what he'd seen so far, he liked. Prouvaire was a gifted speaker -- as gifted as Enjolras when the mood struck -- a talented poet and, as yesterday had shown quite nicely, he was far more fierce than his small, almost delicate exterior suggested. Bahorel had always thought that it was Prouvaire keeping Grantaire in check when it got heated at meetings. He wondered now if he'd had that assumption backwards all along. Perhaps part of why Grantaire made himself such a visible irritant was to put up a roadblock between Enjolras and Jean Prouvaire.

Bahorel appreciated that kind of fire in a man. Unfortunately, each time he had attempted to get to know Prouvaire better, each time he had attempted to get him alone to talk, somehow they had ended up far from alone. Bahorel loved Courfeyrac as much as the next person -- and the five next people after that -- but it was ridiculous how well-timed the man's appearances were. Feuilly, also, seemed to have a sixth sense informing him that Bahorel was close to getting a private moment to talk to Prouvaire. It was maddening.

So, in a fit of inspiration, Bahorel had realized… what better excuse was there to seek Jean Prouvaire out alone than helping him shovel out his walk and driveway? He might not have a car, but Grantaire surely did, and was bound to want to visit with it sometime during this storm. And all of Les Amis had learned that a kindness done to one of the pair was as good as a kindness done to both. And as most of the city was snowed firmly into their houses, still, even this late into the afternoon, he was likely to find Prouvaire home alone. Even Grantaire couldn't have managed this street with his car as snow-blanketed as it was. It was foolproof.

…except that it wasn't.

As Bahorel pulled up to the side of the road and parked his truck, it became apparent that not only was Prouvaire not alone, but that Bahorel would most definitely be intruding if he interrupted. He was in the process of debating whether or not he should just pull away like he hadn't meant to stop here -- as silly as that would look now that he'd driven past and then backed up to park -- when a pair of bright blue eyes topped by a head full of tumbled black curls popped up from behind a snow drift, spotted him in the truck and waved wildly to catch his attention.

And then got a face full of snow for his trouble.

Laughing manically, Grantaire dropped back behind the snow bank. He was gone just long enough for Jean Prouvaire to emerge from _his_ snow bank, movements tentative, eyes darting around -- no doubt, trying to spot what his adversary's distraction had been. Had he been closer or had the window rolled down, Bahorel might have been tempted to warn him that Grantaire had used the convenient cover now provided by Bahorel's truck to sneak around behind Prouvaire and…

"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!! R, that's not fair! I thought we said no snow down shirts! Fucking _A_ that is cold!"

Grantaire, however, couldn't have been more unapologetic, was, in fact, now doubled over in mirth, but when he saw Jean Prouvaire coming with his own double handful of snow, he didn't run. He took his retaliation in good humor, though he yelped just as loudly as Prouvaire had when the snow was thrust down the back of his shirt.

Why hadn't he run? He might spend a decent amount of time slouching, making himself as small as possible, but Grantaire was not short, was, in fact, almost as tall as Combeferre when he straightened from his bad posture. He could easily have outrun the shorter Jean Prouvaire. So why hadn't he?

The sound of the double impact of thrown objects against the side of his truck brought Bahorel more quickly back to the present than anything else could have. Reluctant to let the pair of miscreants have a chance to get snow inside the truck, Bahorel opted instead to risk stepping outside. Sure enough, the moment part of him was visible from behind the truck, he was peppered with snowballs. So, he did the only thing he could do. Reaching down to the ground to scoop up two handfuls of snow, he ran around the truck and started throwing them right back.

* * *

"That was _epic_."

"No kidding! Bahorel, you officially have an open invitation to any snowball fight we have from here on out. Jesus _Christ_ and I thought Jehan was vicious!"

Bahorel blushed slightly, even as he preened under the openly impressed tones in both Grantaire and Jean Prouvaire's voices. It hadn't been what he'd expected when he made the journey over here, and he had certainly been a touch disappointed when he discovered Prouvaire was not as alone as he'd hoped to find him, but he couldn't say that he was disappointed at how the day had turned out. They had accepted his offer of help with the shoveling, using the snow from the cleared walkways to build a third snow fort for Bahorel to join in the fun. The snowball fight which had ensued after that had been, as Jean Prouvaire had said, epic, and had lasted until the sun began to sink below the horizon in a blazing aura of pinks and oranges.

By then they'd all been ready to head inside and warm up. They'd taken turns in the shower and, as Prouvaire had no clothing that would fit him, had thrown Bahorel's clothes in the dryer while he was cleaning up. When Bahorel emerged from his shower, it had been to the sight of Prouvaire dressed in pastel pink flannel Tweety Bird pajama bottoms and a bright green hoodie that looked closer to Grantaire's size than his own. And… "What the hell is that on your feet?"

Prouvaire had looked down, wiggled his toes in the emerald green slippers that looked like someone had mutated a pair of octopi to grow a shit-ton more tentacles and then put them on steroids. Prouvaire had laughed and said, "I have different slippers for every holiday and season and I always break out my Cthulu slippers around Valentine's Day. Personally, I think everyone should have a pair." He'd then offered Bahorel a robe that, like his own hoodie, was far too large to have ever been his. When he'd asked about it, though, Prouvaire had shrugged, a sad, wistful smile stealing the playful smile from his face as he said that the robe had belonged to someone named Morgan.

"Morgan, huh? An ex-boyfriend?"

Prouvaire had shaken his head, that sad smile drooping even further as he said, "No. A brother.” He'd then taken himself off to the kitchen and puttered about readying the next batch of cookies to go into the oven.

Bahorel turned to Grantaire, then, a confused frown on his face as he said, "I thought he was an only child."

Eyes fixed on where Prouvaire was singing quietly to himself in French as he spooned dough onto a freshly emptied set of cookie sheets, Grantaire sighed heavily. "He is." When Bahorel opened his mouth to ask another question, Grantaire cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Leave it alone, Bahorel. You'll only upset him if you ask, and I doubt you'd understand even if he could bring himself to explain. And it's been such a lovely day -- the best we've both had in a while -- and I'd rather not see it ruined with a bout of melancholy right at the end."

Bahorel nodded, made a zipping motion over his lips to indicate that he had no plans to push for that answer. Seeing the way the tension which had built back up in Grantaire's shoulders relaxed back out of him, Bahorel smiled. He really did like Grantaire, and he'd no desire to see either he or Prouvaire unnecessarily unhappy. So, he firmly pushed down his questions about the robe and instead asked a question he hoped would be innocuous. "I noticed you call him Jehan. Where did that come from?"

When Grantaire's lips slid back up into a loose, easy smile, Bahorel mentally shot a fist into the air at his correct read of the situation. He answered with a shrug. "Eh. It's not much of a story to tell. It's an older spelling of 'Jean'. Jehan reads enough old Romantic poetry that he came across the variation often enough to decide he liked it better than ‘Jean’ and… Voila. Jean Prouvaire became Jehan."

"So, does he mind if…" Bahorel trailed off, making a vague gesture towards himself.

Grantaire laughed. "Depends on how formal he's feeling that day, but other than that, no. It's not that kind of nickname."

Before Bahorel had a chance to ask if 'R' _was_ that kind of nickname, or if it, too, was free game, Jean Prouvaire -- Jehan -- called out from the kitchen asking if Bahorel had decided on a movie yet and suggested that, if not, maybe they should get their asses in gear because the cookies were almost done and the hot chocolate was just about there, too. There was the sound of long suffering in his voice -- the suffering of one who just knows that whatever movie was picked, it wasn't one he was going to appreciate. Clearly he and Grantaire had very different taste in movies and he figured that Bahorel's must run more towards Grantaire's than his own.

Grantaire bowed to Jehan and then to Bahorel in an easy flourish, the kind of grace inherent in movements that have been performed so often that they'd become muscle memory. It made Bahorel wonder, not for the first time, exactly where Grantaire hailed from. But, Bahorel buttoned his lip over that query, too, not wanting to destroy the easy camaraderie that had sprung up between them this afternoon and more than happy to relax into it. When asked later on how Grantaire had gotten the drop on him so easily once they were out of sight of the kitchen -- that was Bahorel's excuse anyway.

Right then and there, though, Bahorel barely had time to notice that there was a fist flying towards his face before he was hit twice in the ribs by the one he hadn't seen coming. As he double over, gasped after the air that had been knocked out of him with those first two punches, the fist that had been aiming his way to begin with stopped just shy of his nose and lightly tapped it. Confused just enough to be unsure of the intelligence of fighting back, Bahorel relaxed the fists he'd made when he saw the first blow coming and instead shot back with words, "What the actual fuck, Grantaire? Those weren't exactly love taps!"

"They weren't meant to be."

Bahorel looked up to meet Grantaire's gaze at those words, words spoken with such cold fury behind them that Bahorel almost didn't believe they'd come out of Grantaire. He opened his mouth to shoot out another "What the fuck?" but got no further than "Wh--" before Grantaire raised his fist again. Well, fuck _that_. This time, Bahorel reached up and grabbed the fist that was heading his way, intent on seeing an end to this fight before it went any further. But, Jesus _fuck_ , Grantaire was fast. He twisted with the movement of Bahorel's arm and somehow came up under his guard to plant another punch, this time on the opposite ribs.

Bahorel released him, held his hands out to the sides. He wasn't prepared to really throw a punch with his full strength behind it. He _did_ like Grantaire and didn't want to have to hurt him to stop whatever the fuck this was. Two exchanges later, though, as Bahorel rubbed a now very sore jaw, he began to wonder if anything shy of knocking Grantaire flat on his ass would put a stop to this. Before he could ready his next punch, however, Grantaire was there with an uppercut – though he stopped the punch just shy of hitting Bahorel square in the jaw and knocking his head back into the wall.

Tapping his knuckles against the underside of Bahorel's chin, Grantaire smiled a nasty smile and said, "I like you, Bahorel. I do."

 _Jesus fuck, **again** ,_ Bahorel thought. Out loud, he said, “If this is what you do to people you like, how the fuck do you treat people you _don't_ like?” He stared incredulously into the deadly serious eyes mere inches from his own.

"I do like you, but I recognize that look you've got in your eyes, and I _don't_ like that."

"What look?" The question was out before Bahorel could properly think it through. It wasn’t until after the words were out that Bahorel recognized the look of irritation and disgust on Grantaire's face. It was the exact look Jehan wore when looking at Enjolras.

As he watched that comprehension bloom wide in Bahorel's eyes, Grantaire nodded. "Yeah. Exactly. That look." Grantaire stepped back, shook out his knuckles with barely a wince for how much they must have hurt after throwing those punches unwrapped. "If you want to fuck each other, I'm not going to get in your way. I've seen the way you look at him and, though I'm sure you haven't, I've also seen the way he looks at you. If you both like what you see and you want to enjoy each other for a while, be my guests. But there are a few things you need to understand about Jehan if you're going to walk that road and I don't really think I'm up to imparting that lesson at the moment. So, I'll impart a warning, instead."

Grantaire eyes locked on Bahorel's and his voice dropped into a quiet intensity that immediately drew Bahorel's attention. He said, "Jehan is unhappy enough being stuck in this place because of his ties to me. He does _not_ need yet another person weighing him down." He swallowed hard, turned away to start shuffling through the racks of DVDs on the opposite wall as he continued, "So, you want to sleep with him… fine. You're both adults, and it's none of my business. But, you want any more than that… you'd better fucking promise me that when he's ready to walk away, you won't stop him."

Grantaire turned back from the DVD racks, shoved one of them into Bahorel's hands and muttered, "And if you're half as smart as you read as being, you'll tell him you picked that one and not mention that I had anything to do with it. It's his favorite, and he'll love it."

Bahorel didn't dare look down until after Grantaire left. The movie he held in his hands was a copy of 'Ever After,' the plastic holding the cover page in place ripped in several spots, the cover art underneath also torn and repaired more than once. A well-loved movie, indeed. But why? Why do it? Why attack him, tell him that so long as he only wanted sex Grantaire wouldn't get in his way… and then hand him the first key to possibly getting more than just sex? Why not run when Jehan came after him with that retaliatory handful of snow to drop down his shirt? Why take Jehan's name as his alias under which to make that amazing art?

When Bahorel stepped back into the living room to find Grantaire and Jehan snuggled together in a mound of pillows in front of the fireplace, Jehan sitting between Grantaire's spread legs and sprawled back against his chest, one hand reaching up to let Grantaire take a bite of his cookie, Bahorel thought he might understand. When Jehan's eyes lit up at the sight of his choice of movie, and he immediately jumped out of Grantaire's arms to grab the DVD and pop it into the player and Bahorel saw the bereft look that flashed over Grantaire's face before it was gone again, he understood a little more.

When Bahorel settled himself on the floor, leaning back against the couch and Jehan chose to sit back down halfway between them instead of cuddling up with Grantaire, again, and the bereft look that had crossed Grantaire's face before became as a raindrop compared the downpour of sadness that was there, now, at that choice, Bahorel understood even more. But it wasn't until Jehan turned, caught the bare edge of that look and immediately reached out to take Grantaire's hand in a fierce grip and plant a series of kisses along the knuckles and around to the pulse point in his wrist before yanking Grantaire forward to sprawl across his lap, that Bahorel understood the rest.

Jehan was free with his body, gave his physical affections where he would and when he would. Grantaire clearly understood him well enough to know that tying him down that way was not the way to be able to keep any part of him. But love... that was another story, entirely. Jehan loved Grantaire, wholly and completely. Grantaire would always come first for him, as Jehan would always come first for Grantaire. And if Bahorel couldn't live with that, then he was better off getting out now before he got in too deep. That was why Grantaire had warned him, and warned him in such a way that it would leave a lasting impression. It hadn’t been to keep him away from Jehan. It was because the one who would end up hurt if things went South was not going to be Jehan or Grantaire… it would be Bahorel.

 _You have an odd way of protecting your friends, Grantaire… Fuck,_ Bahorel thought. Well, he appreciated the warning, even if he was going to be feeling it for a couple of days. At least the lesson would stay with him.

About an hour into the movie, Bahorel glanced over at Jehan and Grantaire again, smiled softly when he caught Grantaire's slow blinking, and saw how each successive blink got just a bit longer than the last. He reached up to pull the afghan off the back of the couch and shifted over to where the other two lay. At Jehan's querying look, he nodded towards Grantaire, then draped the afghan over both of them. He shrugged.

The look of naked gratitude and the way Jehan's arm tightened protectively around Grantaire as Grantaire drifted a little further away from wakefulness at the added warmth was all the thanks -- and all the proof -- that Bahorel needed. A kindness to one was a kindness to both and, Grantaire's warnings aside, Jehan had no intention of walking away from anywhere so long as Grantaire was still there, and he wasn't as unhappy about it as Grantaire seemed to think.

Bahorel smiled. _Message received, gentlemen. Both of them. Now, let's just see if I can manage this without getting them garbled. Because Lord knows this mess is tangled enough without me adding to it._

As the end credits began to roll, Jehan slowly tipped over, dropping alongside a long-snoring Grantaire. Bahorel moved slowly, gently disentangled the two and lifted Grantaire off of Jehan's lap. At Jehan's murmured protest, Bahorel said quietly, "I'm just gonna go tuck him into bed, then I'll come back for you. Just sit tight for a minute." Jehan nodded, turned, and tucked himself into the warm spot that Grantaire had left behind. By the time Bahorel returned for him, he was already fast asleep.

It was easy to tuck the two of them into Jehan's queen-sized bed together. It was far harder to resist the need to take out his phone and snap pictures of the way they rolled into each other and instantly tangled their limbs together in such a convoluted lock that Bahorel wondered how on Earth they ever got disentangled in the morning.

Yes, pursuing Jehan had just gotten far more interesting… but what fun was life without a little danger to give it flavor?


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Risking a look into those eyes, Enjolras wanted nothing more than to howl out his dismay at what he saw. Even now, that openness was shuttering, closing down, hiding itself behind an endless supply of bitterness. The window was closing and Enjolras' eloquence had fled him completely. _He couldn't say a word._
> 
> …but he could act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _December 5, 2013:_** Wow. I am definitely feeling like I bit off more than I could chew these winter months. But I promised I would at least get a chapter of this out once a month until my other obligations have cleared enough for me to devote more time to it and I intend to hold to that promise as closely as I can. Also, knowing that I almost definitely won't get another chapter out before New Year's, I want to apologize for this chapter and how it ends. It, uh... doesn't end happily and that's all I'm going to say about it.
> 
> ...enjoy? O_o;;;
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/69055984526/follow-you-follow-me-69106-words-by-eirenical).
> 
> * * *

"Good crowd, tonight."

Joly leaned over the table to take the glass Grantaire was holding out and nodded. "Very good crowd. I suppose everyone's eager for a bit of action after being snowed in this week. Some new faces, too. And just when we thought we knew everyone."

Grantaire sighed as he settled into the chair beside Joly and put his booted feet up on the opposite chair. "I recognize a few. Seems like a lot of the new faces are undergrads." 

Jehan nodded agreement from his seat on Grantaire's other side. "I know some of them from freshmen classes I teach. Didn't think Les Amis ran with those crowds. Didn't think that was Enjolras' style."

Joly shrugged. "Who's to say what is or isn't Enjolras' style? It isn't as though any of us knows him very well."

"I think he's getting tired of spinning his wheels. He's ready to _do_ something, you know? And the man's charming when he wants to be. Freshmen want to belong somewhere so badly that they're easily manipulated. At least Enjolras has good intentions at heart." At the collection of raised eyebrows he received for that statement, Bossuet laughed and saluted them with his beer bottle. "What? I still go to more meetings than the three of you and when things are quiet, he likes to talk I pay attention."

Grantaire leaned forwards at that, eyes eager and hands tight around his glass, and Jehan rolled his eyes. Without dropping Bossuet's gaze, Grantaire freed an arm to elbow Jehan in the side. Jehan grumbled about it, but subsided after that, directing his complaints instead towards his strawberry daiquiri. Grantaire turned his full attention back to Bossuet. "So… what does he like to talk about? Apart from the cold manipulation of dozens of needy freshman?"

Bossuet laughed as he shook his head. "Oh no. You're not catching me in that particular trap, R. You want to know what Enjolras thinks of you? Ask the man yourself. I may be a klutz, but even _I_ know enough to not stumble into the middle of that mess."

Before Grantaire could ask another question, the sound of a metal utensil clinking against glass rang out through the room and neatly diverted everyone's attention. The four at the corner table turned just in time to see Combeferre smile graciously and thank everyone for coming before turning over the floor to Enjolras. And as easily as that, Grantaire was ensnared.

It was ridiculous, this thing he felt. It was obsession, pure and simple. Grantaire had been obsessed with enough things in his life, had known the pull of addiction all too intimately not to recognize it when it had him by the balls. And he was addicted. He was addicted to the sound of Enjolras' voice, to the salon commercial shine of his increasingly long hair, to the blaze of his righteously indignant blue eyes. Grantaire was well and truly lost. He wanted to draw him, paint him, _sculpt_ him for crying out loud -- to carve away the marble to reveal the graceful curve of shoulder, neck and thigh, to free his form from marble and breathe into it with the breath of life.

…and it would never, ever happen.

Even after being kind to him in the flesh, even after ceasing the worst of his heckling at meetings, Enjolras still hardly ever looked Grantaire's way. Perhaps he had a kind smile for him now and again, sometimes even a nod and a word of greeting, but that was all. Grantaire might as well not exist for all the interest Enjolras showed in him. No… Enjolras saved all his passion, all his curiosity, all his favor… for Rebus. Fucking _Rebus_. Not for the first time, and doubtless not for the last, either, Grantaire silently cursed Jehan for ever introducing him to tumblr and the Musain for ever introducing him to Enjolras. Because, as hopeless as the situation was, Grantaire was caught in Enjolras' pull as surely as the Moon was caught in orbit around the Earth, and with just as little chance to pull away.

It couldn't continue on like this forever, though. Something was bound to give somewhere. It only remained to be seen which of them would break first -- Enjolras or Grantaire. And Grantaire… these days he was made of stronger stuff than that. He didn't break quite so easily anymore. And he wasn't going to give up without trying every trick in his arsenal.

…maybe if he was failing to catch this bee's attention with honey, it was time to pick up his stick and go back to beating the hive.

* * *

"Passover, for example, will be here in just two months. I remember my days in freshman housing. I remember subsisting for eight days on mashed potatoes, fruit salad, and an occasional omelet if I was lucky enough to get to the dining hall before class. It's unacceptable for any one group to be discriminated against in such a basic right -- the right not to starve."

"Are you telling me that your God doesn't make allowances for situations such as those?"

Enjolras froze in his speech making, turned to face the source of the unexpected and entirely unwelcome voice. He'd had them. All the new recruits. He'd had them in the palm of his hand, ready and eager to occupy the dining halls if he so called them to do it and now…

Grantaire leaned back in his chair, shifted one booted foot from the chair upon which it had been resting to the table itself, his entire pose designed to show exactly how much he didn't care. So, if he didn't care, why-- ?

"I thought the commandment to preserve life rose up above all other commandments in that Old Testament of yours. Isn't that why there are allowances to the Yom Kippur fast for people on medications which require food? Isn't that why there are allowances for pregnant women, as well? Or am I wrong?"

Enjolras' fist clenched under the table. Damn it. Engaging Grantaire in the past had never gone as well for him as he liked. Enjolras cared far too much and Grantaire cared far too little and that cooler head gave Grantaire a distinct advantage. And, now, Enjolras was out of practice on top of that. Grantaire had been cooperative for weeks, had lulled Enjolras into a false sense of security. Why pick now to return to his obstinate ways? Perhaps it was the new audience. Perhaps he was bored. The only thing that Enjolras knew for certain was that there were freshman who were now nodding in agreement with Grantaire and if he didn't say _something_ , he was going to lose his new recruits before he'd had a chance to enjoy them. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he said, "No, you are not wrong, but no one should be forced to turn away from their religion or their beliefs due to the laziness or greed of a school or organization. Not in this day and age. Not in a country built on the ideals of freedom of self from the over-governance of the majority."

The freshmen were back with him, now, cautiously agreeing with him, again, but Enjolras could see Grantaire already preparing his next salvo. Judging by the light in his eyes and the rush of blood in his cheeks, Grantaire had drunk deeply enough that he would not be careful, would not hold back. Subconsciously, Enjolras braced himself for what was coming.

Grantaire did not disappoint.

"Laziness and greed? That's a bit harsh, don't you think? Isn't it greed and selfishness of a higher order to expect one's every whim to be catered to like a spoiled child?" Taking his foot down off the table and his other from the chair, Grantaire leaned forwards, hands loosely clasped around whatever glass of poison he had coursing in his veins at the moment. He wasn't done, was only just getting started, if that posture was any judge. "You said it yourself -- the dining hall offers omelets. At lunch, there are deli meats, hamburgers, grilled vegetables. At dinner you can get a rice bowl with meat and vegetables of your choice. There are options. You don't _have_ to subsist on 'mashed potatoes, fruit salad, and an occasional omelet.' You just don't like the options you're offered. You don't want a kosher option or a vegetarian option…" Eyes alight and dancing with this small triumph, Grantaire finished with a flourish of his hand, "…you want _better_ kosher and vegetarian options." Smirking as he raised his glass in salute, Grantaire added, "See? Selfish and greedy… and too lazy to get your ass to the dining hall to take advantage of what's already there."

Jumping to his feet, in spite of his resolve not to show how much Grantaire had rattled him, Enjolras shot back, "It was but one example out of many. Don't twist the issue!" When Grantaire merely raised an eyebrow and took another sip of his drink, Enjolras' temper finally slipped the leash and he lashed out, unthinking, "I've told you before that if you've nothing valuable to contribute, you should just not come. Perhaps you should leave."

A glass slammed down on a table then with an ominous thunk and it took everything in Enjolras not to wince at the contained violence of the sound. Damn it, _again_. He'd forgotten. In the righteous blaze of his fury, he'd forgotten that Grantaire's guard dog of a best friend was with him, tonight. Closing his eyes, Enjolras did _not_ utter a brief prayer that the encounter wouldn't turn violent… but he did make a swift attempt to bring his own temper back under control. He didn't need Combeferre's warning hand on his arm pulling him back down into his chair to tell him it was necessary. When Enjolras opened his eyes again, Grantaire was hunched towards Jehan, whispering urgently into his ear, a hand just as restraining clamped on that deceptively small forearm. (Enjolras had seen what Jehan could do when roused to anger. He had no desire to experience it first hand, was selfishly glad that Grantaire thought it worthwhile to make an effort to restrain him, at all.) Courfeyrac was on his feet to Enjolras' left.

"Grantaire, everyone! How about a round of applause for our resident devil's advocate?"

 _What the hell is he doing?_ Enjolras opened his mouth, moved as if to rise, as well, but Combeferre's hand on his arm kept him tethered to his chair. Combeferre leaned over and said urgently, "For the love of everything you hold dear, Enjolras, be quiet for once and let him fix this before it's unsalvageable." Enjolras quieted, then, forced himself to pay attention for when there would be questions later, allowed himself to trust -- for when it came to it he trusted none better than Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Neither would let him or his cause come to harm -- not even at his own hands. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Courfeyrac continued, a particularly broad and reassuring smile on his face -- the one which Enjolras had seen put more difficult people than a roomful of freshmen at their ease. "These are the kinds of arguments for which we'll need you prepared. Reporters are calculating and they are vicious when it comes to young college protestors. They'll want to rile you. They'll want to catch you out in arguments that you can't win. Get familiar with those arguments. Study up on our rhetoric. We have pamphlets prepared with all the talking points, all the questions we've anticipated you being asked at the rally. Grantaire, true to form, has raised a few new questions in the heat of the moment, so we'll make sure to prepare answers to those for you, as well. Feuilly will have them up on the website and sent out over e-mail in plenty of time for you to prepare."

Courfeyrac dropped a hand to rest on Enjolras' shoulder and the double restraint of Combeferre and Courfeyrac's hands kept his temper leashed better than any effort Enjolras could have on his own. Courfeyrac finished his impromptu speech by saying, "We'll make sure you're ready and we'll make sure to be available ourselves to intercept any reporters who harass you. We have permits for this upcoming rally and there are rules the reporters will have to abide by. We'll be on the lookout for problems and none of you will be left alone. For now, don't worry. Grab a drink at the bar, talk amongst yourselves, and don't forget to tip your bartender. And for those of you under 21, there are some lovely nonalcoholic ciders and -- so you don't even think about it -- Eponine is like an eagle. She can spot a fake ID a mile away and she _will_ boot you out of here if she thinks you're going to be a problem. Drink up, be merry, and we'll see you all back here next week!"

As the resulting applause tapered off, Courfeyrac left the head table and went to the bar to grab a cider of his own. Whether it was to set a good example for the freshmen or because he remembered he was their ride home for the night, though, Enjolras wasn't sure and, at that moment, Enjolras didn't care, was just glad to have him gone so he could talk to Combeferre. He leaned towards Combeferre and hissed out, betrayal in his tone, "You three _planned_ this?"

Combeferre sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as though they pained him. "Of course, we didn't. Grantaire has been so quiet lately, we haven't thought to plan for him in quite some time. That was simply Courfeyrac doing what he does best -- reading a crowd and spinning their reaction to our advantage." Nudging Enjolras to look towards the back corner table, Combeferre said, "Judging by the disgruntled look Grantaire is sporting, I'd say he's as disappointed as you that you didn't get to properly finish your argument." He raised an eyebrow. "Far be it for me to promote more discord within the group, but in the interest of our future endeavors, maybe you should do just that." At Enjolras' wide-eyed expression, Combeferre added, "Finish it, Enjolras. See if you can get to the bottom of that outburst. He's behaved for so long… what changed?"

Enjolras thought about it. He thought about it long and hard. It wasn't until Combeferre had left him to speak with Feuilly, until Joly and Bossuet had left Grantaire's table and gone to the bar to chat with Eponine and Jehan had joined Cosette and Marius that Enjolras finally decided that Combeferre had a point. He rose from his table and, swirling irritation and anger making chaos in his head, made his way to where Grantaire was waiting.

* * *

A low whistle.

"Whoa… Bahorel, I missed that when you came over to say hello before. What the hell happened to you?"

Bahorel snorted in amusement. "Found out that I don't need to worry about those kids in Drawing 101 picking on Grantaire. Little fucker's fast and he packs a mean damned punch."

Blink. Blink. Blink blink. Courfeyrac drew back from where he'd been leaning over to more closely examine the impressively yellowing bruise on Bahorel's jaw. "Do I even want to know what happened to get the two of you into a fight?"

"Not so sure it was really a fight." Bahorel stretched his feet out under the table and slouched in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and chewed thoughtfully at his lip for a moment before answering. "It was a friendly warning."

Courfeyrac didn't ask a question, but the look in his eyes left no doubt in Bahorel's mind that he'd end up throttled if he didn't give him an answer anyway. He sighed melodramatically. "Either I got warned away from Jehan entirely, warned that fucking him was OK as long as I wasn't looking to make him a boyfriend, or passed a test to earn Grantaire's blessing to court him good and proper. I still haven't quite figured out which."

Courfeyrac's eyebrows shot up into his hairline and he huffed out a noncommittal, "Huh," before covering his surprise with a long pull at his bottle of cider. Putting the bottle down, he laced his fingers around it, tongue darting out to clear his lips of the last remaining droplets. "So… you and Jehan, then? When you said you were interested in meeting him, I didn't realize…" He trailed off, shrugged, offered a sheepish grin. "Huh."

Smirking broadly, Bahorel nudged Courfeyrac's leg with his own. "Jealous?"

Courfeyrac shrugged, again, shook his head. "Nah, Jehan isn't really my type. I just didn't really think he was yours, either. You usually go more for the tall, dark, and sturdy."

It was Bahorel's turn to raise his eyebrows at that statement, not as easily diverted as many of Courfeyrac's friends would have been. With a bit too much direct accuracy for comfort he said, "Oooooh? Is that so? Strong but delicate, blonde-haired, blue-eyed and feisty as fuck isn't your type?" He nudged Courfeyrac's leg again and let out a short laugh. "Could've fooled me."

Courfeyrac nearly choked on his swallow of cider at that, couldn't have stopped his instinctive glance in Enjolras' direction if he tried. Finally he said, "You're a good man, Bahorel. A little too perceptive for my tastes, sometimes, but a good man." He smirked, waggled his eyebrows. "Besides, it's not like I lack for companionship. If I'm in the mood for a 'strong but delicate, blonde-haired, blue-eyed and feisty as fuck' beauty, I'm more than capable of finding one of my own. You can enjoy yours with a clear conscience. And, uh… watch his best friend's right hook, I guess?"

Bahorel laughed, clapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder. "Oh, I will. The best friend and I have already set a date to give that another go. In appropriate gear. In an appropriate boxing ring. With no ulterior motive." He smirked, took a sip of his own drink. "I expect that match to end a bit differently than the first."

Courfeyrac laughed, then stood as he finished off his drink. "You _will_ let me know when that happens, won't you? Someone should bear witness the first time someone puts your ass in the dirt… if it were to happen."

Bahorel laughed in turn. "You are on, my friend. You are on."

* * *

Feuilly pushed his plate of spinach and avocado dip towards Combeferre as Combeferre sat down at his table. When busy, Combeferre would often forget to eat and he'd certainly been busy lately. Rallies didn't plan themselves, after all, and many of the organizational details of such events often fell to Combeferre. Feuilly liked to encourage him to make up for those missed meals when he could. 

Since Courfeyrac had introduced them, they'd found they worked well together, Combeferre readily and expediently making use of whatever information Feuilly found and never taking exception to his methods for finding it. Feuilly appreciated that, appreciated even more that Combeferre never looked down on him for his blue collar day jobs, for the unlikelihood that he would ever finish the degree he'd started what seemed a lifetime ago. They understood each other. They could relax around each other, drop their respective burdens in front of each other in ways they couldn't in front of many of their friends.

Feuilly waited until Combeferre determinedly began eating a handful of tortilla chips before beginning to speak. Nodding in Courfeyrac and Bahorel's direction, Feuilly said, "That was smoothly done. I thought we'd lost the entire crowd for sure, for a minute there. You and Enjolras should double what you pay him."

"Payment?" Combeferre snorted out a short laugh, shook his head. "This is a labor of love, Feuilly. You should understand that better than anyone." Feuilly raised his glass in acknowledgment of the truth inherent in that statement. He didn't get paid to do what he did for the group, either, after all -- and being the only one Les Amis still engaging in even grey-area illegal activity for the cause, he was also at more risk than any of them and most deserving of restitution for it if there were any to be had. Still, he never complained. And neither did any of them. Combeferre smiled a self-deprecating smile, "Enjolras wants to remake the world into a better place and Courfeyrac and myself gave ourselves over to following wherever he chose to lead a long time ago, Feuilly. Someday that may lead to a paying job, but that day is not today."

Feuilly chuckled, reached out to grab a tortilla chip and dipped it before popping it into his mouth. "Yeah. You two are hopeless."

Combeferre laughed. "You speak as though you are any better off than we are. Ever since your introduction, Enjolras has taken to using your life as an example, your thoughts and feelings about underground movements against the establishment as his own personal how-to guide. And you're as taken with his ideals as he is with yours. You are smitten, my friend -- as smitten as we. You, too, would follow wherever he chooses to lead, payment offered or not."

Feuilly picked up his bottle of beer and tilted it in Combeferre's direction. "Touché, my friend. You are not wrong. You are not wrong in the slightest." Drinking deeply of his bottle before once again trading it for a handful of chips, Feuilly settled back to take in the rest of the room. To call them a motley crew would be kind. What had drawn them all together was a mystery to Feuilly. They were jagged puzzle pieces that did not yet fit comfortably together, but they each had something to offer to Enjolras' ideals for a better world. Right now, though, they were like poorly trained sled dogs, all pulling every which way and jerking the sled about fit to tip it over. If only someone could formulate a way to get them all working in tandem, they would be a force to be reckoned with. They needed to learn to pull as one and Feuilly just knew that Enjolras would be the one to get them there… eventually.

Right now, Enjolras was too distracted, too inexperienced and sheltered, in many ways, to understand what needed to be done to truly harness the skills at his disposal. He was too full of the light of idealism -- a light which shines too brightly and throws each and every imperfection into stark relief until it is all that can be seen. Until that glow dimmed, Enjolras would be helpless to effect any change in the difficulties their group had working together. But, once it did… what a wonder that would be.

"Why do you even _come_ to these meetings if you disdain what we do so much?"

Feuilly and Combeferre turned to look at each other, eyes widening then wincing closed nearly in unison when Jehan turned from his conversation with Cosette and Marius to respond to Enjolras' angry words with a, "Jesus fucking Christ on a crutch, can't I leave you two unsupervised in a crowded room for five minutes?"

The pair in question had frozen in place, Enjolras standing over Grantaire and Grantaire half out of his seat to meet that stiff posturing with some righteous indignation of his own. Before Combeferre could intervene, Grantaire quelled Jehan's angry grumbling with a single look. Turning back to Enjolras, he gritted out, "It's a free country, or so you're always saying, and I like it here. I've as much right to be in the Musain as you do -- more perhaps because Eponine likes me better than she does you." Grantaire finished standing and tossed back the remainder of his drink before grabbing his coat. Raising an eyebrow in Enjolras' direction, he said, "But, you may have a point. You and I do far better conversing on neutral ground. Will you join me in a walk?" He smirked. "Or do you not have the proper coat again this time?"

By that point, Courfeyrac and Bahorel had left their own table to join Combeferre and Feuilly. Courfeyrac was shooting panicked glances by the handful at Combeferre, but Combeferre couldn't spare him a moment's attention for once, was too focused on Enjolras and on willing him to say 'No' to pay any mind to anything else.

…but since when had Enjolras ever done as Combeferre willed?

Combeferre watched, stomach clenching, as Enjolras' lips stretched into a slow grin which did absolutely nothing to warm the chill in his eyes. He gritted out, "My coat is more than adequate. Are you sober enough to walk anywhere worthwhile?"

Even as Combeferre removed his glasses, rubbing hard at his eyes, as though that might change what was happening to something more comprehensible, Courfeyrac let out a low moan and dropped his head to rest between Combeferre's shoulder blades. Combeferre could barely make out the words that were muttered into his back, but they sounded like, "This can only end in tears."

Feuilly let out a low whistle. "You're not kidding. Maybe one of us should go follow them if they leave?"

Before any of the others at the table could answer, another voice broke into the conversation and her words were firm and final, brooking no argument. "You will do nothing of the kind. They are both grown men and intelligent enough to realize when a fresh setting may provide a fresh perspective. You will give them the space to do so without forcing them to posture for any of you. Is that clear?"

Combeferre turned to meet Cosette's gaze. Her eyes were as hard as her voice, her mouth set in a stern line. He said, softly, "You know something we do not."

Lips turning up from their frown into a soft smirk, Cosette said, "Combeferre… I know _many_ things which you do not. This is but one of them."

At those words, the weight of Courfeyrac's head lifted off Combeferre's back and was replaced by his hands. Those hands started gently kneading, fighting against the instinctive tightening of muscle and the headache which would no doubt ensue without intervention. Moments later, as Combeferre finally began to allow himself to relax, Courfeyrac leaned forward, spoke just a few simple words into Combeferre's ear… and in the space of a heartbeat, those words undid all the careful work Courfeyrac had just done. This changed everything. Turning slowly in Courfeyrac's hold, he murmured back, "My place. Right now. We need to talk." Courfeyrac nodded grimly and went to fetch his coat, no argument. What had he said?

"…I know who Rebus is."

* * *

Enjolras bit back a curse as he and Grantaire crossed the street and the wind cut through his coat. Out from the lee of the buildings there was little protection from the cold, and though Enjolras was better prepared this time -- he had gloves and a _hat_ , and a scarf, too -- he was still far from prepared for the chill in the air this late on a winter night. Damn his pride. Damn the winter. Damn Grantaire. What had Enjolras been thinking to agree to this madness? What had Combeferre and Courfeyrac been thinking to _allow_ him to agree to this madness?

Chancing a glance at the madman who had dragged him out here, Enjolras was dismayed to find him strolling along quite casually, meandering about the street as though he'd no destination in mind and never had. The night air, rather than shrinking him into his coat -- that warm, thick down coat for which Enjolras still envied him -- seemed to be reviving him, causing him to stand taller, to breathe more deeply, to grow more alert. Rather than encouraging him to find some secret hole-in-the-wall in which to escape the cold, he was thriving on it, seemed intent on staying out in it for as long as possible.

They walked another two blocks, saying nothing, barely looking at each other, before a chance set of timing had them catch each other's eyes at last. Enjolras looked away first. After a moment, they resumed walking. They'd walked barely more than a block this time before they caught each other's eyes again. Grantaire opened his mouth to speak but closed it after producing nothing more than a fierce blush. And Enjolras envied him _that_ , too. Enjolras' cheeks were so reddened and chapped by the cold already that he doubted a blush would even show on his own face, fair though it was.

They had walked barely another half a block when Grantaire took an abrupt turn down a street Enjolras had not even seen. He was about to protest, all too aware of how dangerous parts of the city could be, but soon realized that Grantaire did, in fact, seem to have a destination in mind. Also, Enjolras couldn't deny that the protection of the tall buildings surrounding them cut down on the chill of the wind considerably, and his chattering teeth won out over his worries by a long shot.

After another few minutes of tense silence, Grantaire paused, this time by a completely unassuming door which seemed just as much a hole in the wall as the Creperie had been. Grantaire looked at Enjolras, then looked at the door, then looked back at Enjolras, as though debating the wisdom of bringing him inside. Enjolras couldn't care less where they went by that point, as long as they went somewhere indoors. Now that they had stopped moving, the cold was leaking in with determined fingers into every nook and cranny left bare by his coat. Finally, Grantaire let out a deep sigh, opened the door and waved him in.

It wasn't until they were inside that Enjolras realized that he'd been expecting another hidden gem like La Crêperie. He was almost disappointed to find that this was nothing of the kind. This was no restaurant, not even a billiards hall or bar. The room in which they stood was clearly an entry alcove of some kind. There a row of mailboxes on the opposite wall and now that they were both inside, Grantaire was, even now, opening the last of the mailboxes to check inside it. A staircase wound its way up from the entryway and Enjolras could make out several landings on the way up, each leading to their own doors. In spite of the evidence before him, Enjolras' cold benumbed brain refused to put it together. For why, after the intensity of their fighting that night, would Grantaire invite him into his own home?

Now with three envelopes in hand, Grantaire waved Enjolras up the stairs before him. At the fourth landing up, Grantaire caught at Enjolras' sleeve, motioned towards the door on the left. Enjolras waited patiently as Grantaire pulled out a key -- one lone key attached to a worn and battered keychain on which Enjolras could barely make out any letters, two 'P's, an 'I' and an 'N' -- and fitted the key into the lock. Once the door was open and Enjolras was inside -- inside in that wonderful, wonderful warmth -- only then did Grantaire speak. Though there was no evidence of drunken slurring to the words, his voice was heavy, as though on the walk up the stairs it had become too much for him to carry. "Your coat?"

Reluctant to part with its added warmth, Enjolras nonetheless handed over his outer garments, hastening to wrap his arms around himself once he'd done so. Grantaire rolled his eyes, but he did lean over to obligingly the spin the wheel on the thermostat a few degrees higher. When Enjolras continued to shiver, Grantaire rolled his eyes and muttered something about making coffee and that Enjolras should make himself at home while he did so. It took Enjolras a moment too long to catch on to what had been said, but once he did, he called back, "Any chance of making mine a tea, instead?"

Grantaire's head reappeared from around the corner with a grim smile. "Of course, Your Highness. Anything else you'd like while I toil in the kitchen for your pleasure?"

Enjolras shook his head and Grantaire disappeared back into the kitchen, whistling a jaunty and surprisingly on-key rendition of the Marseilles. Enjolras turned to examine the rest of the apartment. It wasn't the sort of place Enjolras would have pictured Grantaire living, had he been pressed for his assumptions. A moderately sized apartment, It was neat, not a single item out of place. Books were lined up precisely on their shelves. There was no evidence of DVDs or music of any kind, though further perusal did find a very small collection of movies, all of them VHS tapes, tucked in the small cupboard beneath the television.

The living room was large enough to hold a couch and a loveseat, two small end tables and a coffee table, as well as the bookshelves lining the walls, but was not much larger than that. The television was a small flat screen, mounted on the wall and tucked out of the way, as though it didn't see much use. A short walk down the hallway revealed a linen closet, a bathroom, and another door which Enjolras presumed led to the apartment's sole bedroom. That was a line which he would not cross, however, not without far more express permission than he'd been given. Returning to the living room, Enjolras began to fidget. He moved closer to the bookshelves, took a closer look at the titles. He recognized a few, but not many. Some surprised him, some made him shake his head in disgust, others still made him smile as he recognized favorites from his own collection. Eventually he stopped trying to find a pattern, merely tucked away the information he gathered for later thought.

By the time Enjolras had left the bookshelves and was debating going down the other hallway to the kitchen, Grantaire reappeared in the living room entryway with two mugs in hand. One held coffee so black that Enjolras could practically taste its bitterness from the smell wafting his way. The other held tea… and it was only then that Enjolras realized that he hadn't told Grantaire how he took his.

Grantaire handed it over and, noting the look of uncertainty which had passed over Enjolras' face as he took the proffered mug, rolled his eyes and rattled off, "Darjeeling. One and a half teaspoons of sugar. Large splash of 2% milk. Yes?"

The glint in Grantaire's eyes sent a shiver down Enjolras' spine which had nothing to do with the cold. That glint… it hinted at a danger which Enjolras was not used to seeing from Grantaire. It hinted at secrets and whispers and dark corners. It dared him to deny that this was exactly how he took his tea and then dared him further to ask how it was that Grantaire knew that. At least Enjolras was smart enough not to take Grantaire up on either dare. Instead he turned back towards the living room and settled down on the couch, cradling the mug of tea in his hands. When Grantaire joined him, curling his long form into the corner of the loveseat, Enjolras nodded at the room. "This is nice. Not exactly what I expected… but nice."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "You spend a lot of time thinking about my living conditions, Enjolras?"

Enjolras really didn't. He hadn't given it much thought at all, in fact… except to wonder if Grantaire's living conditions were as squalid as his habits, if he cared as little for his home as he did for his person and his life, if he could even afford a decent place to live or if he drank all his money away.

…so maybe he'd thought about it.

Regardless, this moderately-sized, neat-as-a-pin, practically sterile living space was _not_ what he'd expected. Enjolras had more clutter in his own apartment than Grantaire did in his. Seeing Grantaire's eyebrow still raised in query, Enjolras finally said, "I just… I suppose I didn't expect you to keep such a clean home."

A derisive snort was Grantaire's immediate answer. "Of course. Because I drink and don't care for your world improvement schemes, I must be poor and live in a dump. Narrow-minded, Enjolras… very narrow-minded."

Of course, it was. Enjolras frowned, stalled for time by taking a sip of his tea. He'd have choked before admitting it, but it was better than the tea he made for himself. And that was almost creepier than the too-neat apartment. After taking another sip and a longer moment to simply warm his hands on the cup, Enjolras said, "This isn't why I came here."

"No. No, of course, it isn't." Grantaire pulled a face, took a long swallow of his coffee. Putting the mug to the side -- neatly on a coaster on an end table a precise arms' length away -- Grantaire stretched his arms over his head. When he lowered them again, letting them hang loose over his folded legs, he said, "You want to ask about tonight."

It wasn't a question, was instead a statement of fact, weighted down with that same weariness of tone with which Grantaire had spoken earlier. It made Enjolras loathe to push the issue, but he needed an answer and he wasn't leaving without one -- not when his entire cause might be at stake. "I want to ask about tonight."

Grantaire shrugged, a lazy smile spreading across his lips to show off a set of teeth far too bright for Enjolras' comfort. "Not much to tell." At Enjolras' frown, Grantaire shifted his arms back to rest along the back and arm of the loveseat and slouched into the corner. "When I'm drunk I shoot my mouth off. When I'm around you I shoot my mouth off. I'm drunk. I'm around you. There needs to be something more to it than that?"

Enjolras dismissed that last comment with a wave of his hand. "You're _always_ drunk and you were around me for quite some time these last few weeks without picking a fight. What I want to know is what made tonight different? Why pick a fight with me when you knew I needed to make a good impression on our newest members?" Enjolras put his mug down on the coffee table and moved to stand, only pausing at the wince that crossed Grantaire's face. What--? Oh. Slowly panning back to look at the mug then back at Grantaire, he said, "Really? You fall asleep drunk on the floors of bars but you're squeamish about me putting a tea mug down on your table without a coaster?"

Grantaire didn't answer, merely leaned forward to pick up Enjolras' mug and put a coaster under it before replacing it. Enjolras stared at him in disbelief, finally got out, "I don't _understand_ you."

"You don't _want_ to understand me," Grantaire shot back. "You don't even want to understand what happened tonight. What you really want is my promise that it won't happen again. Well, you know what, Enjolras?"

"For crying out loud, _what?_ "

Grantaire opened his mouth to answer but before he could get out a single word, he was interrupted by music erupting from his back pocket. Both Enjolras and Grantaire jumped at the unexpected noise. Grantaire recovered more quickly, reaching for the offending phone and scowling at the number on the screen. Without giving Enjolras more than a passing glance, he stood and walked a few steps away to give himself the illusion of privacy, trusting Enjolras to respect the veneer and not eavesdrop. And he didn't. Eavesdrop. But it wasn't as though he could turn off his ears.

Two minutes later, Enjolras had figured out that it was Jean Prouvaire on the phone and Grantaire had turned just long enough to give Enjolras a disgusted look before turning and walking up the hallway which led to his bedroom. Enjolras sighed, picked up his cooling mug of tea and resolutely began drinking it. He refused to even ponder what it was that Prouvaire might be saying to Grantaire, even now, to make this situation worse than it already was. Five minutes later, Grantaire still hadn't returned and Enjolras was no closer to figuring out what they might be discussing. Enjolras began to fidget. It was one thing to choose to be alone. It was another thing entirely to be _left_ alone in someone else's apartment when one wasn't even sure if the someone else was precisely a friend.

When Grantaire still wasn't back five minutes later, Enjolras gave up. Grantaire didn't want to talk to him? Fine. He didn't want Enjolras listening in on his phone calls? Enjolras couldn't blame him. But, he'd be damned if he was just going to sit here and stare at the walls. Pushing himself up off the couch, Enjolras crossed the room to take another look at the bookshelves. Books, at least, he understood. Books didn't lie. Books didn't cancel plans. Books didn't betray you. Books were always there, always comprehensible, even when nothing else was.

Enjolras reached out a hand, brushed his fingers gently across the spines of the middle row of books, trying to find a rhyme or reason for how they were organized. It wasn't exactly alphabetically, as he'd first thought. The upper shelves and lower shelves seemed to maintain order fairly logically, but in that center row, right at shoulder height, the order broke down. Those books also seemed just a little more well-worn than the others, the tops of the spines folding outward and tattered, as though they'd been pulled at often by careless fingers. Enjolras took one from the shelf at random, allowed it to rest in his hand, fingers cupping the spine to protect it. He was unsurprised when it fell open at a well-creased spot. These books were favorites, then, were read often, handled often… like old friends.

Enjolras had a shoulder high shelf full of books just like these… and just as out of order.

Looking down at the page where the book had fallen open in his hand, Enjolras read, _~As he made the last steps, he saw two forms coming towards him. A tall girl, with light hair and rosy face, was leaning on Heidi, whose dark eyes sparkled with keen delight. Mr. Sesemann stopped short, staring at this vision. Suddenly big tears rushed from his eyes, for this shape before him recalled sweet memories. Clara's mother had looked exactly like this fair maiden. Mr. Sesemann at this moment did not know if he was awake or dreaming.~_

Well… that was a surprise, for sure. Enjolras hadn't spent any more time contemplating Grantaire's literary preferences than he had his living conditions, but had he been asked, he would never have expected to find this book in Grantaire's collection at all, much less a copy so well loved. Enjolras had a copy, too -- just as well-loved as this one. It had been a favorite since he'd been old enough to read it and its message of eternal optimism and the goodwill of people didn't seem like it was exactly Grantaire's cup of tea.

"What are you doing?"

Enjolras jumped, almost slammed the book shut on his finger in surprise. Heart hammering and feeling like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have been, Enjolras felt his cheeks start to do a slow burn. Closing the book and cradling it with a gentility at odds with the sharp tone of his voice, Enjolras shot back, "Well, what did you expect me to do when you just wandered off like that? Sit around and collect dust? Are you always this bad a host?"

Grantaire sighed and just raised a hand to rub at his forehead in response… and Enjolras had to wrestle down a sudden instinct which screamed at him to go over and replace Grantaire's one-handed, ineffective rubbing with a proper massage. It's what he would have done if it had been Combeferre looking that tired, that defeated. It's what he would have done if it had been Courfeyrac who'd overindulged, stayed out too late, then stayed up to help him organizing his latest project to put that weary look on his face. It's what he would have done for a _friend_ … but what was Grantaire? Where did he fall on that spectrum? They'd started out their acquaintance bitterly disliking each other. They'd cautiously built that into a wary sort of tolerance and Enjolras had _thought_ that last had finally transmuted into a casual friendship. Grantaire had taken him to _dinner_ , for crying out loud, had been quick to agree that he wanted the fighting to stop. So what was this? Were they back to square one? Or was this return to antagonizing him just a spillover from Jehan's bitter animosity? Damn it, how could Enjolras even hope to predict it if he didn't understand what had started it to begin with?

Across the room, Grantaire winced, turned away. "It doesn't matter. Just… put it back, OK?"

Enjolras nodded, expression solemn. He knew how he would have felt had he found Grantaire so casually handling one of his favorite books, so that was a courtesy he could respect. Enjolras replaced the book as carefully as he had initially removed it and by the time he turned back, he'd finally figured out what to say. "I… I thought we'd said no more fighting. I _liked_ when we weren't fighting."

Grantaire snorted, moved back towards the loveseat to collect his now cold coffee and knock the rest of it back as he would have a fortifying shot of whisky. He stared down into the mug for a time afterwards, as though he might find answers there to the question Enjolras wasn't quite asking. Just when the silence started to stretch to uncomfortable proportions, Grantaire said quietly, "I didn't."

Feeling a headache of his own starting to build, Enjolras clenched a hand tightly into his hair and asked, "Why the hell not?"

Grantaire shrugged. "When we're fighting… when you argue with me… at least I know you're seeing me. When you're not fighting with me, it's like I don't even exist to you. I may as well be one of your faceless, nameless oppressed for all the presence I have. I may as well be a piece of the furniture." Turning to eye the mug Enjolras had placed so carelessly directly on the coffee table even though a coaster had been available, Grantaire finished with, "…and you treat me just as callously." Turning back towards Enjolras, Grantaire's eyes blazed, his fists clenched. In a quiet voice, full of angry vehemence, he said, "At least when we're arguing, I can fight back."

Enjolras' eyes narrowed. Pulling his hand out of his hair, he crossed his arms over his chest. He was getting angrier by the minute. He was going to lose his temper soon, he could feel it. This _always happened_. Forcing himself to respond in as calm and rational a tone as possible, he said, "I don't like what you're implying."

Grantaire flung his arms wide, a smile stretching his lips into a death's head grin. Enjolras took an involuntary step back at the bitter venom in normally dancing blue eyes. Seeing that, Grantaire's smile turned even nastier. And it was wrong. Grantaire wasn't made for that kind of smile; a sneer didn't sit right on his face. It wasn't _Grantaire_.

Enjolras braced himself, muscles subconsciously tightening in case the encounter turned violent. Grantaire hadn't struck him as the type, but no interaction he'd ever had with Grantaire had gone exactly as expected. It turned out, though, that he needn't have worried -- even as Enjolras' defenses went up, Grantaire's deflated. Letting out a humorless laugh, Grantaire muttered, "I'm too sober for this shit."

"This is you _sober_?" The words were out of Enjolras' mouth before he could censor them, before he could even consider how they would sound in the context of this ridiculous conversation, or what effect they might have on Grantaire in this oddly vulnerable and volatile state.

…they hit home.

Grantaire drew himself up to his full height -- and it wasn't until then that Enjolras realized that Grantaire had several inches on him, a fact he'd have much rather neither had noticed as Grantaire took advantage of it to literally look down on him. "You don't approve of my drinking. You don't approve of my opinions. You don't approve of the way I live, the way I talk, the way I do anything. You have no use for me, whatsoever. You've made all of that perfectly clear." Leaning in, eyes burning with an emotion Enjolras couldn't define no matter how hard he tried, Grantaire said, "So why the _hell_ did you come with me?"

To get to the bottom of Grantaire's actions tonight.

To ask Grantaire to cease and desist his every undermining move.

To bar Grantaire from every other gathering Les Amis ever held.

To demand that Grantaire be sober if he could not stay away.

To beg Grantaire to tell him what had gone so wrong, what had destroyed his faith in humanity so utterly and completely that he could turn every gift he had on its head in order to ruin what might be Enjolras' one chance to make a difference at this school.

All those answers and more battered at Enjolras' teeth, demanded to be let loose from behind tautly drawn lips to wreak their usual havoc… and Enjolras couldn't allow it. He refused to speak the words, refused to be the one to tear apart the flimsy rope bridge currently binding Grantaire to the group, not when there was still a chance to coax him completely across it. Because suddenly, with absolute blazing certainty, Enjolras knew that that was why he had come. That was what he wanted. Grantaire's unique perspective, his clear-eyed, though cynical view, his absolute unashamed and unforgiving way of pointing out every flaw in Enjolras' rhetoric… his flagrant disregard for Enjolras' good graces -- he _wanted_ that. He needed it. Those weeks, when contact with Rebus had been so strikingly absent, Enjolras had grown to rely on Grantaire's bold statements and how they ripped open his arguments to reveal the flaws which a journalist, a politician, a lawyer, would have exploited without apology. Grantaire's opposition made them stronger and Enjolras had been a _fool_ not to see it before now.

Courfeyrac had seen it. He'd said that very thing just this evening and Enjolras had been too full of embarrassment at his own actions to see it until now. Only, now… now that Grantaire was staring him down, demanding an answer of him… now those words deserted him. If he said them now, Grantaire wouldn't believe. He _couldn’t_ believe, not after tonight.

Risking a look into those eyes, Enjolras wanted nothing more than to howl out his dismay at what he saw. Even now, that openness was shuttering, closing down, hiding itself behind an endless supply of bitterness. The window was closing and Enjolras' eloquence had fled him completely. _He couldn't say a word._

…but he could act.

If Grantaire would not be won over with words, could not be charmed into alignment like the others, then this was the only way. Enjolras resolutely ignored the loudly squalling voice in his head screaming at its own lies. This had nothing to do with winning Grantaire over to the cause. Nothing. This had to do with need, pure and simple. Just as with Rebus, Enjolras couldn't beat Grantaire with words, would never see him submit, never see him yield to an argument lost. All of Enjolras' charm deserted him where those two were concerned. But with Grantaire, unlike with Rebus… words were not the only weapon Enjolras had at his disposal.

Fisting his hands in Grantaire's shirt, Enjolras jerked him roughly forward, without warning, with hardly any care at all, and sealed his lips over Grantaire's. Grantaire stiffened under his hands, jerked once as though to pull away, then let out a choked whimper as Enjolras moved his lips against his. He whimpered again and it sounded as though something in his chest had broken beyond all repair. Grantaire's lips were slack beneath Enjolras', utterly unresponsive, and his hands twitched restlessly at his sides, brushing against Enjolras' hips one moment, then jerking hard away the next.

This was _not_ how Enjolras had wanted this to go and, damn it, he'd learned from the best, knew every trick of the trade when it came to kissing. Enjolras was _good_ at this. He was. He'd had enough practice, for fuck's sake. At the next broken whimper, Enjolras pushed hard at the chest beneath his hands, held tight to the material as Grantaire stumbled backwards, until they fetched up against the nearest wall. Enjolras kept moving, molded himself to Grantaire's lanky frame, slipped his knee between Grantaire's legs to secure that grip even more, trapping Grantaire against the wall and willing him to respond. This had worked before. It _had_. Twice. Damn it. Why was it not working? Maybe because it was Grantaire?

When Enjolras leaned forwards again, exerting just the slightest pressure upwards with his knee, Grantaire made another broken noise and finally, _finally_ , brought his hands up to clutch at Enjolras' hips and pull him closer, finally opened his mouth and began kissing back. Enjolras only barely held back a crow of triumph. Of _course_. That explained it. It explained all of it. Why Grantaire was so intent on being noticed, on being seen, on being a distraction. As obsessed, as… as _in love_ as Enjolras was with Rebus, so too was Grantaire with him. And that… that was something he could use.

Only even as Enjolras completed that thought, Grantaire once again managed to do the unexpected. Breaking away from Enjolras' lips with one last broken sounding whimper, Grantaire shifted his grip from Enjolras' hips to bring his hands up and between Enjolras' arms, breaking his hold on him as though that hold had been no more than the ineffective clutching of a toddler on his mother's skirts. Grantaire then pushed him, hard, causing Enjolras to be the one to stumble backwards this time. Grantaire's blue eyes were cold, hard, blazing with righteous indignation as he spat out, "There isn't enough alcohol in the fucking _world_ to make me drunk enough for _that_." Before Enjolras could say another word to explain himself, Grantaire's face twisted, so full of anger that Enjolras backed up a pace, shaken.

Once there was space between them, Grantaire quieted, the snarl slipped from his face to reappear in his voice as he spoke his words in a low tone harsh enough to send shivers down Enjolras' spine. "You do not have me wrapped around your little finger as you do the rest of your sycophants, Enjolras. I am not a prize to be won or a town to be conquered. Is this what you do when your charm fails you? I thought better of you than that." Enjolras moved to interrupt, but Grantaire waved him silent -- undoubtedly a good thing as Enjolras' self-preservation instincts had long since flown out the window and he'd doubtless have said or done something even more incredibly stupid than he had already otherwise -- and continued, "If I had thought you meant that an act of love, or even friendship, I'd take you to my bed right now, with open arms and no strings attached. You're not wrong about that. But that was an act of anger and frustration. Love is not a battle to be won, friends are not made by defeating them and I will not be had for so cheap a coin." He paused then, panting slightly, eyes wild. Lifting a finger and pointing firmly at the door, he simply said, "Get out."

Enjolras knew better than to try to explain himself. He'd miscalculated, made a mistake… done wrong. There was no excuse he could make here that would not sound contrived, would not sound condescending. He'd gambled on Grantaire's desire for him outstripping his basic antipathy… and lost. Now it only remained to be seen exactly how much.

Grantaire didn't slam the door behind him and Enjolras hung about at the keyhole long enough to know that he also didn't cry, and from the complete absence of distraught sounds of any kind from beyond the door, didn't spare him a second's more thought that night.

And somehow that was the worst thing of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  I just wanted to take the opportunity to say thank you to you guys for staying with me as slowly as I'm plodding through writing this story. I never intended for it to take more than six months to get it done, but I think I've got a feel for the shape of the ending now and I'm going to cautiously say I'll be wrapping this up in maybe another three or four chapters?
> 
> ...then again, you know what they say about the best laid plans. ^_~
> 
> Also, recently I've somehow managed to startle a couple of you on tumblr because we met under other circumstances. I'm sorry because I really wasn't trying to be sneaky! I always include links to my tumblr chapter posts up top, but for this once I'll be a bit more blatant. You can find me at [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com) on tumblr and I always love an opportunity to chat. So, feel free to come say 'Hi!' I promise I'm not scary, even when I'm being accidentally sneaky. ^_^
> 
> (Also I'm going to take a moment to totally shamelessly plug a new blog. I love e/R like mad, but I've caved to the truth that Courfeyrac is my favorite of favorites and C/C is my ship. SO, I started an ao3feed for them (housed at [ao3feed-courferre](http://ao3feed-courferre.tumblr.com)) which is also going to contain other C/C content as well as shares of older C/C fic on ao3. So, if you like C/C, feel free to come check it out! ^_^)
> 
> OK. I'M DONE SHAMELESSLY PIMPING MYSELF, NOW. Thanks for listening! ^_^
> 
> ...-.-;;;


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little pencil finally began moving again. Rebus' next words were: _~You're in love with this boy.~_
> 
>  _~I AM NOT!~_ The reaction was so gut-deeply instinctive that Enjolras couldn't have held it back if he'd tried. He was _not_ in love with Grantaire. The very thought was ridiculous. It was… it was impossible. It was impossible because… _~I'm in love with YOU!~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _January 27, 2014:_** Well... people told me to take my time with this chapter to make sure it was done right and I took them at their word. ^_~ Sorry for the delay, but winter session at the university ended up being a MUCH larger timesuck than expected and I ended up taking another trip up to Toronto to SEE COLM WILKINSON IN LES MIS in the middle of it. I also kind of maybe started another epically long and disturbing fic? -.-;;; ANYWAY. I have this chapter ready now, so I'm going to go ahead and post it now. Enjoy? ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/74756398813/the-little-pencil-finally-began-moving-again).
> 
> * * *

In spite of having made such a point of drinking only nonalcoholic beverages at the meeting that night, it turned out that Courfeyrac did not have his car with him. Combeferre had raised an eyebrow at that, but Courfeyrac had tossed him one of his most winning smiles and that was that. Subject closed. And that wasn't the only closed subject apparently. For the entire walk to Combeferre's apartment it seemed _every_ subject was closed. It was unlike Courfeyrac to be so silent. Combeferre had never once known him to have so little to say, especially after dropping a bombshell such as the one he had dropped at the end of the meeting.

_~I know who Rebus is.~_

Courfeyrac was fond of those dramatic, game-changing statements, always had been. He would drop them into the middle of a conversation, smiling widely, eyes sparkling with mischief, as though daring someone to ask him how it was he knew what he'd just claimed. Combeferre had seen it happen. He'd seen Courfeyrac make these outrageous statements before, seen him challenged, and seen him decimate his opponent with brilliant deduction after brilliant deduction none of which could be denied or disproved. But then there were other times… 

At those times, Courfeyrac would stutter and falter, unable to articulate how it was he had come to know what he'd just claimed, unable to lay out the logic for another to follow, unable to persuade people to his side. Combeferre hated those moments, hated seeing his passionate friend driven to the silence of embarrassment, the shame of failure. Those were the only times Combeferre had ever truly seen Courfeyrac hold his tongue, and those moments were so few and so unnatural that they brought every one of Combeferre's protective instincts roaring to the fore whenever they happened.

When they reached Combeferre's apartment Courfeyrac was still silent -- still thinking, from the crease between his brows. He toed off his shoes, handed Combeferre his coat, and headed straight for the couch to plunge face first into its cushions. Combeferre sighed and hung up both coats before claiming the armchair as his own seat, heart sinking to sit uneasily in the vicinity of his stomach, if his sudden queasiness were any indication. This did not bode well. "Courfeyrac…?"

Courfeyrac, face still mashed into the pillows beneath him, made a strangled noise that could have been a laugh. It could also have been a sob. It could also have been the opening lines of Beyonce's "Single Ladies" for all Combeferre could understand of it. Reaching out a hand, Combeferre gently shook Courfeyrac's shoulder. "Hey. It can't be as bad as all that."

Courfeyrac turned his head towards Combeferre. The smile he wore was ghastly, a sick perversion of what a smile should be. The sound he made this time was definitely a laugh, but it was a bitter one. Enunciating carefully, he said, "Don't bet on it."

When Combeferre merely raised an eyebrow in response, Courfeyrac dropped his head back onto the pillow and let out a low moan. Combeferre merely steepled his fingers, resting the tips lightly beneath his chin. Courfeyrac was nothing if not dramatic and he always had a sense of moment. He would wait just long enough to give this one its due before finally saying…

"It's Grantaire."

…before finally saying, _It's Grantaire._ Wait. Wait… what?

"What?" Combeferre allowed himself to stare unabashedly for a moment, before clearing his throat and saying, "Would you… Courfeyrac, would you please repeat that? I'm not entirely certain I heard you correctly."

Another laughing groan. "If that's your response, then you probably did. Damn it." Punching the pillow for emphasis, Courfeyrac pushed himself upright, ran a hand through his already tousled hair. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back into the cushions, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "It's Grantaire. Rebus. Rebus is Grantaire, Grantaire is Rebus… _fuck_. It's actually brilliant." Courfeyrac started to laugh. "It's even more brilliant than I gave him credit for back in the beginning."

Combeferre sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're going to make me yank it out of you word by word, aren't you?"

Waving a hand in negation, Courfeyrac said, "No. I’m just… I'm still a bit in shock that I didn't put it together sooner. Rebus all but told us who he was. A rebus is a symbol used to represent a name, right? And Grantaire's name… _shit_. Grantaire's _nickname_. 'Aire. Where did that come from? I bet I can guess." He shook his head. "Grantaire… Grand-aire… Grand 'R'. 'Big R'." At Combeferre's continued look of confusion, Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. "Big R, Combeferre. Big R, capital R. An initial, short for Grantaire, and a nickname all in one… and the first letter of the word 'rebus'." Waving his hand in a flourish, he said, "And what is an initial, anyway, but a symbol used to represent a name?" Another dark chuckle. "I'd not be surprised to find out that Jehan had as much of a hand in that naming, as he did in the SJWs new name."

"It makes a certain sort of sense, I can't deny it… but Courfeyrac, you can't be basing all of this on a name." Combeferre leaned forwards, elbows braced on his knees, eyes imploring. _Please don't let him be basing this all on a name. Please don't let this be one of those times he can't explain himself. Please…_ Combeferre needed Courfeyrac's logic, needed the deductions laid out to help him see this, because he wouldn't dare act unless he was certain Courfeyrac was right, even if he'd never been wrong before. The stakes were too high, especially after tonight.

Courfeyrac leaned forwards, as well. Reaching out, he took one of Combeferre's hands in his, gave it a small squeeze. When he started to talk, Combeferre breathed a sigh of relief. "It's hard to explain, Combeferre. I'm not certain what it was that tipped me off, but… you know that Rebus often messages me, even when he's radio-silent to the public. I never kept that from you, but I haven't always disclosed the content. You agreed that that should be private and I took you at your word. Some of the things Grantaire said tonight… Combeferre, they were Rebus' words. I remember them distinctly. And…" He stopped.

Combeferre prodded gently at him, squeezed his hand in return as he asked, "…and?"

Breath leaving him in a soft rush, Courfeyrac shrugged. "And… all that passion that was missing when Enjolras talked to Cosette? Jesus Christ on a crutch, Combeferre… you could have roasted marshmallows off the blaze of passion Enjolras and Grantaire were kicking off tonight. Sure, they were furious with each other, but… it was passion, plain and simple." He sighed, pulled his hand back from Combeferre's and resettled himself back against the couch cushions. "I can't explain it better than that, but Grantaire is Rebus. I'd bet my life on it."

Combeferre allowed himself a moment, just one single moment, to appreciate just exactly how screwed they were. The situation between Enjolras and Grantaire was already so volatile; how much worse would it get with the advent of this knowledge? Enjolras did not tolerate being lied to. He had as little use for liars as he did for governments who oppressed their people. This was going to explode in all of their faces.

Well. It wouldn't be the first time that he and Courfeyrac between them had contained an Enjolras-sourced conflagration. So, they would contain this one, too. Somehow. Turning back to Courfeyrac, Combeferre opened his mouth to speak… and stopped. His message delivered, Courfeyrac had settled more deeply into the cushions and was starting to list over sideways, his eyes half-lidded. That was… not normal. Courfeyrac might sham-sleep to get Enjolras to quit pushing a meeting agenda when the hours had crept on too long, but he'd never done it to Combeferre, and never when something this important was before them. For the first time in weeks, Combeferre allowed himself the luxury of truly looking at him, not just in passing… but truly looking.

Combeferre didn't like what he saw.

Courfeyrac wasn't shamming. He was well and truly falling asleep.

Seeing an odd smudge just beneath Courfeyrac's right eye, Combeferre reached out a hand, gently swiped his thumb along the high arch of Courfeyrac's cheekbone. Courfeyrac scrunched his nose and batted lightly at Combeferre's hand, but made little movement besides that. That, in itself, would have been worrying, but when Combeferre pulled his hand back, his thumb was covered by a thin sheen of nude colored make-up, as well. And, beneath that make-up were bags so dark and deep they looked more like bruises than signs of lost sleep. Combeferre winced. He really didn't wish to disturb what was clearly a much-needed rest, but he couldn't figure this out on his own. Dealing with Enjolras had always been Courfeyrac's specialty; managing Enjolras through this without his input could prove catastrophic. So, though he hated himself already, for putting Enjolras' needs before Courfeyrac's, Combeferre didn't feel he had much choice. He pushed aside his worry over this evidence of Courfeyrac over-working himself, reached out a hand and gently gripped Courfeyrac's shoulder to give it a gentle shake. "Courfeyrac… I can see you're tired and I'll let you sleep in a little while, but could you wake up again for just a minute? Please?"

Courfeyrac blinked his eyes open, then winced and scrunched them shut before blinking them wide open again and rubbing at them. Combeferre recognized that pattern. Softly, he said, "You left a lens case here the last time a meeting ran long if you want to take them out."

Courfeyrac sighed and shook his head, "I don't have my glasses with me. If I take them out, I'm stuck here until morning and I'll be useless until I put them back in."

And that was always the problem, wasn't it? Courfeyrac's greatest fear was not being needed by his friends and he would do almost anything to avoid being useless. Combeferre sometimes wondered where on Earth Courfeyrac had gotten the notion that anyone could _ever_ consider him useless… but in his less charitable moments, he didn't have to wonder very hard. Combeferre gripped Courfeyrac's shoulder once again and said, "You know I don't mind you staying and I don't mind playing seeing-eye-Combeferre for you, either." Though he left them unspoken, Combeferre added silently in his head, _I like taking care of you when you give me an excuse to do it… please give me an excuse._ The look in Courfeyrac's eyes softened then and Combeferre smiled, sensing him ready to give in. To sweeten the temptation, Combeferre said, "Perhaps, later on, I'll even read to you in lieu of watching the television you won't be able to see."

Courfeyrac snorted out a short laugh at that before shrugging and gifting Combeferre with a tender smile. "OK, OK, I'm convinced. We'll wash up and get ready for bed, then I'll get these damned things out of my eyes…" Suddenly sobering, Courfeyrac said, "And then we'll put our heads together and figure out what to do about Enjolras and Grantaire. Deal?"

Nodding solemnly, Combeferre answered simply, "Deal."

Courfeyrac rose from the couch and padded quietly to the bathroom. Just as he passed out of sight down the hall, Combeferre heard him mutter, "'Seeing-eye Combeferre'… where the hell do you even come up with these things?"

* * *

_BAM. BAM. BAM._

Marius jerked awake, startled out of a very pleasant dream that slipped immediately away from him upon waking. He whimpered softly, held out a hand to stay its leaving, even though he knew that no such action could hold a dream.

_BAM. BAM. BAM._

That time, Marius recognized the intrusive sound that had awoken him for what it was. Someone was pounding on the door. Loudly. Marius glanced at the green glow of his clock's digital readout and groaned. At 2:12 AM. Who could that possibly be? Groaning his way out of bed, Marius made his way to the apartment door. Whenever Courfeyrac came home late, he would leave a Post-It note there for Marius, so that he would have an easy way to assuage his worries without having to wake Courfeyrac up by checking on him. So, it was simple really. If there was no note, then the rude ingrate banging on the door was probably Courfeyrac, himself, having forgotten his keys. Marius started preparing a blistering lecture for Courfeyrac as he flipped on the table lamp in the living room.

_BAM. BAM. BAM._

"I'm coming!" Marius yelled, then muttered under his breath, "My gosh, keep it together. The world won't end if you have to wait two minutes." Cursing softly as he stumbled over one of the shoes he'd kicked off in the hall earlier, Marius grabbed his foot and hopped the last few steps to the door.

…there was no Post-It note. Sighing heavily, he muttered, "Damn it, Courfeyrac… you could have texted or called. You know I keep my phone beside my bed for just such emergencies. There's no need to bust the door down!"

The moment the door was open, Marius found himself grabbed up by the lapels of his pajama shirt and roughly shaken. After a moment of panicked confusion when he was convinced he was about to die like some ignorant fool in a horror movie, Marius finally pieced together the rest of what he was seeing and figured out that though the man shaking him decidedly _wasn't_ Courfeyrac, it was still someone he knew, and got out, "Enjolras? What on _Earth_ \--?"

Enjolras shook him again for good measure and growled out, "You're not who I want," before stalking up the hallway, calling Courfeyrac's name and turning on every light as he walked past. He was as a man possessed, with his wild eyes, tangled hair, and jerky movements. Marius didn't even bother following him down the hall, knowing from the lack of a Post-It what he would find. A moment later, Enjolras reappeared in the living room, finger pointing stiffly back down the hall and breathing heavily as he gritted out, "He's not here."

Marius yawned, knuckled at his eyes as he started turning the lights back off. "I could have told you that, Enjolras, if you had but asked politely."

Enjolras frowned. "He never came home last night?" He paused, then frowned harder, "Tell me he didn't go home with one of the freshmen. One or two of them might have been under age."

"He didn't go home with a freshman and, Enjolras, it's _still_ last night." Moving around Enjolras to turn off the hall light, Marius added, "He was planning to go home with Combeferre, if you really need to know."

"He… with _Combeferre_? Courfeyrac… and Combeferre?"

Enjolras' voice was so quiet, so hesitant, that Marius turned towards him with a raised eyebrow. The look on Enjolras' face was even more priceless still. He couldn't have looked more surprised if someone had hit him in the back of the head with a board. Marius paused then, wondering, _Do people really do that? Hit each other with boards? It seems to happen in stories often enough, or at least it should for how often the expression is used._ Pulling his meandering thoughts back under control, Marius turned back to examine Enjolras' stunned expression. For just a moment, Marius was tempted to let him keep thinking what he was obviously thinking. Still, as entertaining as that would be, that truth would come out all too quickly once Enjolras spoke to either Combeferre or Courfeyrac and then it would be Marius on the receiving end of his anger for the deception. It wasn't worth it.

Marius shook his head and said, "They said there was work to be done for Les Amis and that even with you otherwise occupied, it still needed doing." He shrugged. "They must have finished late and Courfeyrac decided to stay over rather than brave the elements, again." He didn't add, 'As any sane person would have decided to do,' and felt very good about himself for keeping that addition behind his teeth, given the current circumstances. Enjolras slumped, fell back against the door as though he were a marionette whose strings had been cut. Marius reached out a hand to steady him, fretted over how pale he looked in that moment, with those high points of color standing out in his cheeks from his earlier tirade. Hesitantly, he asked, "Enjolras… is everything all right?"

Letting out a low moan, Enjolras covered his face with his hands and muttered, "No. No, it isn't all right. I made a mistake. I… a _big_ mistake, and I need to talk to Courfeyrac."

Marius watched Enjolras for a minute, weighing his decision carefully. If Combeferre had convinced Courfeyrac to stay over, absent his books, absent his glasses, and absent any other work or distraction, then Courfeyrac would get a good night's sleep. And Marius was not blind, nor was he dumb. It was a good night's sleep which Courfeyrac badly needed. If Marius sent Enjolras over there, any chance of him actually getting that sleep would be gone. Making a swift decision, Marius said, "Well, there's nothing for it. Courfeyrac isn't here, so you've two options. You may await his return -- for he will surely be back by morning, as he'll need to collect his books before class -- or you may talk to me."

Enjolras' eyes gave away his answer before he even opened his mouth.

Marius responded to those quickly flitting eyes, intercepting them with a snap of his fingers before Enjolras' body could follow his gaze and make for the door. "Going to Combeferre's and interrupting _their_ sleep as you did mine wasn't a choice, Enjolras. You wait until morning and speak with him upon his return, or you speak with me, now."

Marius gave Enjolras another minute to think it through before casually raising an eyebrow. Enjolras' face heated, a blush overtaking his fair skin as he ducked his head and answered, far more meekly than Marius would have ever suspected he could, "Do you think he'd mind if I slept in his bed?"

Marius smiled, emboldened enough by Enjolras' current shyness to pat his shoulder in as reassuring a manner as he could. He said, "Not in the slightest. I'll bet he wouldn't even mind sharing his toothbrush if you needed it."

Enjolras finally smiled in return. "No… I suppose he wouldn't. Thank you, Marius. I… I'll turn out the lights and go to sleep, in a minute."

Marius nodded, turned to go up the hall, then turned back, a question in his eyes. Enjolras just shook his head, "No… I… thank you, but no. I just need some time to think."

Thus dismissed, Marius turned to go back to bed. He had a feeling he'd need his strength up to deal with whatever problem was brewing in Enjolras' mind. The last thought Marius had before finally falling back asleep was to wonder if said problem had a name… and if its name was 'Grantaire'.

* * *

Enjolras paced the living room, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, alternately burying his hands in his hair, then crossing them over his chest, then rubbing them harshly at his face, before repeating the process over again. His chest felt tight, his heart was still beating far too fast. He'd made a mistake. He'd made a terrible mistake. He knew that now, could see it now that he had some distance on it, but how did you fix a mistake like this? Courfeyrac would know. Courfeyrac had more experience with kissing, had more experience with _people_ , had more experience with everything, really. He would know what to do, he would know what to say, he would know how to fix it.

…but Courfeyrac wasn't here.

Enjolras pulled out his phone, considered it for a moment before putting it back away. It was late. It was far too late to call Courfeyrac, far too late to call anyone, really. Feuilly was the only one who might be awake this late and only if he were working on some important-yet-borderline-illegal project. And Enjolras certainly wouldn't want to interrupt him if that were the case. What Feuilly did was important, took bravery that Enjolras wasn't sure that he had. It might only be a few strokes on a keyboard, but the effects those strokes had were _real_. They changed lives in ways that Enjolras was unsure his actions had ever managed. So, he wouldn't interrupt that, wouldn't risk it, even if Feuilly had more common sense than all of the rest of Les Amis put together and might be the only person apart from Courfeyrac who could actually _help_.

Sighing heavily, Enjolras turned out the last of the lights and went up the hall to Courfeyrac's bedroom. It was a moderate to large-sized room, but it never appeared so, dwarfed as it was by the gigantic bed that took up most of the available floor space. Courfeyrac had leered at Enjolras' blush when he'd showed it off that first time, waggled his eyebrows and made all sorts of suggestions for what one could do with a bed that large, but Combeferre had put a stop to the teasing before it went too far.

…not to say that that teasing hadn't fueled Enjolras' imagination. It had. Enjolras had thought a lot about that bed, about convincing Courfeyrac to bring him back here to make use of it. He'd thought about it more than he should have, thought about pressing Courfeyrac back against those scores of mounded up pillows, thought about the way two bodies could make a nest of them once sated… he'd thought about that bed a lot. But, damn it, he'd always thought about having Courfeyrac in it _with_ him when doing so!

Of course, those days were over now -- the days of kisses on his birthday, the days of more than kisses… that one night that had nearly been everything. It had been an experiment, nothing more, one designed to help Enjolras sort out a sexuality which had been slow to present. And Courfeyrac had been willing -- a little reticent sometime, perhaps, but willing -- and Enjolras had taken advantage of that willingness for years… but no more. Not since he turned 22. Combeferre had pulled Enjolras aside on the morning after his 22nd birthday, when Courfeyrac had still been sleeping off his indulgence and their activities of the night before, to tell him that whether he was satisfied or not, it was still over… because Courfeyrac deserved better than to be lead on when Enjolras had no intention of ever truly following through.

Enjolras had been horrified at the implication. He hadn't seen, hadn't realized, hadn't ever thought that Courfeyrac might view their explorations as more than just an experiment. He would never have put Courfeyrac in that position, if he had. So, he'd agreed with Combeferre. It was one thing to experiment when it was just two friends exploring their sexuality together -- it was another thing entirely when one of those friends was in love with the other and those explorations turned into cruel usury. But that hadn't stopped Enjolras from wondering. After all, they might have progressed farther than kissing that night, but they hadn't gone as far as Enjolras had secretly hoped Courfeyrac would allow them to go.

Burying his hands back in his hair, Enjolras deliberately turned away from the bed and its red satin sheets -- _red_ , for goodness sake! -- and began to pace again. He hadn't understood what it meant, when Courfeyrac had looked at him with those shining eyes, so full of need and want, had thought it just part of the close friendship they'd shared. How was he supposed to have known the difference? Courfeyrac had _always_ looked at him like that. Enjolras hadn't understood what it meant to love another without being loved the same way in return. He hadn't _wanted_ to understand. He did, now. He understood what it meant to love and have that love unreturned, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he owed Courfeyrac an apology for abusing that love, now that he knew how badly it could sting.

Enjolras took a deep breath, let it out. It had taken him far too long to understand, far too long to see the greater picture of his interactions and draw the right conclusions, but with tonight's forcible reminder, he thought he understood now. He understood what is was to have one's love be unrequited. He'd seen in Grantaire the same thing he'd seen in Courfeyrac and he'd exploited it without consideration for how that would feel on the receiving end. He'd done it for what he believed to be a good cause, but that didn't excuse it, not when he could imagine all too well how he would feel if Rebus, for example, had treated _him_ in such a manner. And that was a more apt comparison than he was really comfortable with… because Enjolras was in love with Rebus. And though that realization was new, it felt right. Rebus infuriated him, taunted him at every turn, but he was brilliant. He was quick-witted -- quicker on his feet than Enjolras, and more well-acquainted with the human condition to boot -- and he was knowledgeable about so very, very many things. And, like Feuilly, he was grounded in the real world, in the practicalities of things, and Enjolras admired him for that, even as he wished he could have had Rebus separated from his very real world cynicism.

Flopping down on the bed, Enjolras covered his eyes with his arm. It was all too ridiculous. Even _he_ knew how ridiculous it was. How could he love a man he hadn't even met? How could he love a man whose voice he had never heard, whose touch he had never felt, whose eyes he'd never gazed into? How could he feel so deeply for a person who might not even be real? Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been right to be concerned all those months ago. Enjolras knew well that people could hide their true selves online and that the real Rebus might not be like his online persona, at all. But how would he ever know if Rebus would not consent to _meet_?

Enjolras rolled over onto his side, then toed off his shoes so that he could tuck his legs up onto the bed. And there was Grantaire to think about. He had made a dreadful mistake tonight. Grantaire hadn't deserved that. No one deserved that. But Enjolras _would_ deserve it if Prouvaire found out and decided to carry out one of his myriad threats. Still… Enjolras hadn't realized the depths of Grantaire's feelings. He'd thought Grantaire's interest in him to be purely physical in nature or in some other way lesser to how Enjolras felt about Rebus. Certainly they didn't get along well enough, didn't have anywhere near enough in common, for Grantaire to be in love with him, not as Courfeyrac had been with him, not as he was with Rebus. Such things should be reserved for one you knew well, shouldn't they? Someone you at least got along with?

…but if that were true, then where did it leave Enjolras with Rebus?

Enjolras balled his hands into fists, beat them uselessly against his head. He was no good at this! He needed Courfeyrac. Damn it. 

Enjolras rolled back into a sitting position, pulled his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. He would get no rest tonight, not until he was able to talk to someone, to begin to sort this out. He briefly considered waking Marius and belatedly taking him up on his offer, but changed his mind almost as quickly as he'd set it. Marius was caught in a round robin platonic circle of "dating" two women who were in a relationship with each other and had no interest in dating him and he didn't even see it. What possible help could he be?

After a few minutes more of thought, Enjolras' eyes fell on Courfeyrac's laptop, which he'd left sitting on his desk. He shouldn't. It was a breach of privacy. He really shouldn't… but he knew Courfeyrac's password, or could at least guess it within two guesses. And surely, Courfeyrac wouldn't _mind_ … He would stay out of Courfeyrac's files. He just needed… no. He shouldn't.

Ten minutes later, Enjolras couldn't decide if he'd won or lost the debate with himself, but either way, he was sitting cross-legged on the bed and had Courfeyrac's laptop open in front of him. It had taken Enjolras _four_ tries to guess Courfeyrac's password and it had rattled him. Time was, he wouldn't have even had to guess. He would have just known what Courfeyrac was using as a password. Enjolras stopped for a moment, hands hovering over the keys. Apart from Les Amis activities and classes, he couldn't remember the last time he and Courfeyrac had just… spent time together. And that… that wasn't right. It made Enjolras more determined than ever to pin Courfeyrac down to talk. Friends like he and Courfeyrac didn't just grow apart. They just… didn't.

Enjolras lifted his hands and slapped them briskly against his cheeks. There was nothing he could do about that now. But, he'd definitely have to make it up to Courfeyrac another time. Perhaps he could talk Combeferre into helping him plan to take Courfeyrac out for a nice dinner somewhere -- maybe that new French restaurant that he'd been raving about back in September. That would be good. Courfeyrac would like that, having both of them to himself and not having to be the one to cook them dinner for a change. Yes. That _would_ be good. They'd just all been busy and Enjolras had been preoccupied. It would be sorted out in no time. Satisfied that he'd solved the problem, for now, at least, Enjolras pushed it to the back of his mind.

Feeling much better, and far less guilty, Enjolras opened up a web browser and logged in to tumblr. As expected, there were quite a few messages in his Inbox. He slogged through all 118 of them, hoping to find one from a certain individual… and ending up sorely disappointed. There were no new posts from him, either. Enjolras scrolled down his dash, saving posts to his drafts to look at in more detail when he had the time and inclination, silently mentally responses to some of the reblogged Amis posts he was seeing, debating what to do next… when a soft _ping_ startled his train of thoughts right off the rails. What--?

There, in the bottom right corner of the screen, was a small text box. The top half was orange; the bottom half was white and read, "Huh. Wasn't expecting to see…" and it was from _Rebus._ Utterly dumbfounded, Enjolras clicked on the box before he'd even considered what he was doing and read the rest of the message.

_~Huh. Wasn't expecting to see you still awake. Thought for sure you'd be turned in to rest up for Valentine's tomorrow. The meeting that dull?~_

Rebus.

Courfeyrac… and Rebus.

They were on _Skype_ with each other?? Ignoring the stab of betrayal he felt at this obvious evidence of collusion behind his back, Enjolras clicked on the text entry box and typed: _~I'd say it was pretty eventful, actually.~_ On a whim, he then added: _~Wouldn't you?~_ and then sat with his heart pounding, awaiting a reply.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes. Eventually, another message pinged up on the screen. It read, _~…what makes you think I would know?~_

Elated at that well-thought out evasion and the feeling that he was _finally_ on the right track, Enjolras shot back, _~Because you were there, weren't you? You're always there.~_

Enjolras wasn't sure when that suspicion had become certainty, but it undoubtedly had. The way Rebus talked, the things he said… there was no way he could know what he knew about the Amis' inner workings if he didn't at least attend meetings. And that made it even _more_ maddening that Enjolras hadn't been able to figure out who he was.

Seconds ticked by, again, then minutes. Enjolras could picture Rebus, now, sitting back from his computer, long fingers -- because of course they were long, and elegant, too, as nimble on the keyboard as they would be on a stylus, or a pencil, or whatever drafting tool he used to draw those damned political cartoons -- drifting back and forth over his lips as he debated how to answer. Finally, the little pencil on the screen began to move, indicating typing. The sentence that popped up when it stopped read: _~Does Courfeyrac know you've usurped his laptop, Enjolras?~_

If Enjolras' heart had been racing before, it all but slammed up into his throat and stopped when he read that last sentence. Mouth going utterly dry as his cheeks flamed with color, he typed back, _~What makes you think that?~_

_~You don't sound a thing like him and no one else but you would have had the opportunity and audacity to respond to a message meant for him. How could I not know?~_

Enjolras frowned at that flippant response, somehow more upset than was reasonable at the idea that he'd been differentiated from Courfeyrac not because Rebus recognized _him_ , but because Rebus recognized that whoever was speaking wasn't Courfeyrac and then had reasoned out the rest. It took more effort than he liked to convince himself that the stabbing pain in his chest at that thought wasn't jealousy.

It also took more effort than Enjolras liked to tamp down that instinctive response and come up with one more civil, but he finally managed to say, _~We have an understanding, Courfeyrac and I. He doesn't mind when I use his things.~_

Another pause. The next words Rebus typed dropped like stones into the pit of Enjolras' stomach to churn uneasily with the guilt already sitting there.

_~You're very good at using things that don't belong to you.~_

It was too close. Like many things that Rebus said, those words hinted at a knowledge that he couldn't possibly possess unless he was someone close to them. Enjolras stared at those words, wondering at the myriad ways they could be interpreted. And for a moment, just a moment, in the kind of insight known only to those who had committed an act for which they felt guilty, Enjolras was suddenly sure that Rebus was talking about what had happened with Grantaire that night. But that was ridiculous. It was beyond ridiculous. Rebus couldn't possibly be referencing that, even obliquely. And even if he was… so what? It didn't _mean_ anything. He didn't even _know_ Rebus. It wasn't as though they were dating. And it had just been a kiss. One kiss. Two kisses? In any case, if he and Rebus weren't dating -- and they weren't -- then why would he care if Enjolras had kissed another. So why was Enjolras even feeling guilty at all?

_~I kissed someone, tonight.~_

For a moment, Enjolras stared at the words on the screen and wondered why Rebus would be telling him that. Then he realized… the name next to the words was not Rebus, it was LovesLaboursWon. Enjolras had typed those words, not Rebus. What aneurism had ruptured in his brain to allow _that_? Enjolras stared in horror at the words before hastily adding, _~I have no idea why I just blurted that out at you. I'm sorry. I’m sure you have no interest in whom I kiss.~_ Enjolras ruthlessly quashed the little voice which piped up from the depths of his mind which insisted that he almost hoped Rebus _did_ care.

This answer was much more quickly wrought than the last two had been, arriving within seconds of Enjolras' addendum. _~On the contrary, it's of great interest to me. Congratulations. Who was the lucky girl?~_

Enjolras felt his cheeks warm at the question Rebus shot back. It was harder, this time, to convince himself that Rebus' easy acceptance of this hypothetical girl hadn't induced a stab of jealousy. For, if Rebus was so accepting of Enjolras having kissed someone… how many people must _he_ be kissing? And behind Enjolras' back, no less! Silently fuming over his own jealousy and embarrassment, Enjolras finally answered, ~ _It wasn't a girl. It was a boy. His name is Grantaire. He's… I don't know what he is. He comes to our meetings when he clearly has no interest in the cause. And he argues with me constantly.~_

_~We do our fair share of arguing, too, Enjolras. Maybe you just bring that out in people.~_

Enjolras sighed, rubbed his hands briskly over his face, again. _~This is different. This… I don't even know how to explain it. It seems he argues with me just for the sake of arguing. When you and I argue, there's a purpose to it. You boost my signal. You bring me to an audience that wouldn't find me on its own. Even if we don't always agree, at least you believe in me enough to help. Grantaire… he doesn't believe in anything. Not one thing. And worse than that, we've had civil conversations before, he and I, and we'd been getting on just fine these past few weeks until he just went and tossed it all away on a whim! It's infuriating.~_

_~…so naturally, the answer to what to do with this fury was to kiss him.~_

As unastute as Enjolras generally was in matters of emotion, even he could read the dryness in that statement. No doubt, Rebus' eyebrows were drifting up into his hairline even as Enjolras sat there and thought about it. And put that way, it did sound ridiculous… but wasn't that the point? Enjolras knew he'd made a mistake. He knew he'd done the wrong thing. What he needed was for someone to tell him how to fix it.

 _~No, that… Kissing him was a mistake. I know that. I shouldn't have… I let my emotions get the better of me. I just get so frustrated.~_ Enjolras sighed, then typed the next sentences in clipped rapid succession. _~He has such potential, Rebus. He's smart, but he's clever on top of that. He sees things I don't. He finds the flaws in my logic before Combeferre has even looked. He has such a unique, grounded viewpoint and he's brilliant and instead of using it to help, like you do, he uses it all to undermine me!~_

Another pause, and this time the sarcasm was so thickly implied that it could have been cut with a knife. _~…so was kissing him a mistake or not?~_ There was another pause before Rebus continued and Enjolras could practically hear the exasperation radiating from the screen. _~Enjolras, do you have any idea how confused you sound? He infuriates you and he frustrates you and you're fed up with him, but you admire him and you see value in him that he doesn't see in himself and you want him to work with you, but you want him to leave you alone at the same time and you--~_

There was another pause during which the pencil on the screen began moving once again, then stopped and made erasing motions, then writing, then erasing, then laid itself down to indicate that Rebus had stopped typing altogether. Enjolras stared at it, willing the little pencil to lift up and start moving again. When it didn't, Enjolras typed, _~…yes? And I, what?~_

The little pencil finally began moving again. Rebus' next words were: _~You're in love with this boy.~_

 _~I AM NOT!~_ The reaction was so gut-deeply instinctive that Enjolras couldn't have held it back if he'd tried. He was _not_ in love with Grantaire. The very thought was ridiculous. It was… it was impossible. It was impossible because… _~I'm in love with YOU!~_

The second Enjolras had hit 'Enter' on those words, the minute they appeared on the screen, he desperately wished he could take them back. He couldn't backpedal over those words, couldn't yell "April Fool!" and be done with it. And worse… Enjolras groaned. And _worse_ … it was 3:33 AM on Valentine's Day. How awfully clichéd could he get? Cringing in absolute horror for this second, larger screw-up, Enjolras placed his hands back on the keyboard, cursed as his fingers fumbled on the keys and he was forced to erase several glaring typos, giving Rebus a chance to get in an answer before he could explain.

So, of course, he did. And his answer was just as final as Enjolras' had been to Rebus' statement about Grantaire. 

_~No, you aren't. You don't even know me, Enjolras. That's no less true now than it was when you first asked to meet with me all those months ago. I'm not sure you even know what love IS.~_

Enjolras' heart began racing once more at those words, shaking his head at the finality implied in those statements. Rebus was brushing off his feelings as though they meant nothing, as though _Enjolras_ meant nothing. And it felt every bit as awful as he'd feared it might. He had to respond. He had to say something. Anything. Just… _anything_ so Rebus wouldn't go, so those wouldn't be the last words he would say. _~I do know what love is.~_ When Rebus' pencil started moving again, Enjolras quickly shot out, _~Please don't say anything!~_ and then, _~Just let me explain.~_ And finally, _~Please.~_

Rebus' pencil moved for a moment, then revealed the noncommittal words of, _~All right.~_

Heart racing, Enjolras typed and sent his next sentences as soon as each was finished. _~Love is the way my heart races when I see your name in my notifications. Love is the way nothing makes me happier than when you agree with something I've said. Love is how nothing makes me sadder than knowing I've disappointed you. Love is how I think I'd be content never meeting you as long as I know that you'll still talk to me. Love is knowing that I'll gladly take whatever affection you're willing to dole out to me as long as I know you won't disappear again. Love is the fact that whenever I see something I know you'd like, I wish I could send it to you. Love is wishing I knew your favorite color so I could change the background color of my blog to match it so every time you visit it, it will make you smile. Love is… it's about care… and about trust. I… Rebus… I know what love is. And I know I love you. And, if you don't love me…~_ Enjolras had to stop then, embarrassed to catch his breath hitching, more embarrassed still to feel wetness beginning to roll down his cheeks.

On a whim, Enjolras opened Courfeyrac's Skype profile and clicked "Change picture." When the webcam booted up and revealed what a mess he truly looked to be at that moment, Enjolras decided that no amount of play-acting was necessary. He hit the "take a picture" button and let his sorrow speak for itself. When he switched back to his chat window with Rebus, it was with that picture now replacing Courfeyrac's in the profile. _~If you don't love me… I can live with that. But, please… I'll never bring it up again, if you don't want me to, but please, don't shut me out.~_

It was a full three minutes before Rebus finally answered with, _~I am nowhere near sober enough for this conversation. I think I may decide to forget we even had it in the increased haze of early morning drunkenness I'm about to indulge in. Enjolras… I bid you good night and a happy Valentine's Day, and next time you want to attempt a similar debacle of a Skype conversation, kindly do it from your own address.~_

And with those final words, Rebus signed off.

Enjolras was still staring in dismayed horror at the screen nearly three hours later when the sun rose. He hadn't slept a wink.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Enjolras typed, ~ _This is ridiculous._ ~  
> ~ _I'm not nearly as persuasive by text as I am by voice._ ~  
> ~ _I'm going to call you._ ~  
> ~ _If you still want to maintain some semblance of anonymity, I suggest you turn off your webcam._ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _April 16, 2014:_** I don't even know what to say. I am SO supremely embarrassed that it took me this long to get this chapter done that I don't even have words to express it. I tore it apart and rewrote it at least seven times. I erased thousands of words. But I am _finally_ happy with the result. We're starting to head towards some resolution here and my plan is still to wrap this up in another few chapters. Then we'll see about whether or not that originally planned sequel is going to happen. I think I'd like to devote some time to Muet and the Moving Sea 'verses once this is wrapped. So, we'll see. Anyway, thank you to all of you who are sticking with me, even as slowly as I'm currently writing, and a special thank you to [doeskin-pantaloons](http://doeskin-pantaloons.tumblr.com/) \-- you are an ABSOLUTE GEM and I do not know how I'd have gotten this chapter out without you. (For those who don't remember, she is my amazing, wonderful, so-fantastic-that-I-can't-even-with-her-anymore beta-reader and, and, and... SHE'S JUST REALLY GREAT, OK??)
> 
> *coughs* Anyhoo. Moving on. Fic now? ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/82914635046/follow-you-follow-me-chapter-15-finally).

A lifetime's worth of unusual sleeping arrangements had made Jehan a very good sleeper. He could sleep deeply and restfully anywhere, at any time it was required. So, his slumber -- sated and glorious after the previous night's activities -- was not interrupted by the various articles of clothing thrown upon him, nor even by his boots, which soon followed. It wasn't until Bahorel jerked awake letting out a startled yell and, far more importantly, dragging the blankets and trapped warmth with him, that Jehan awoke. Once awake, however, he was awake wholly and completely, with no transition necessary between sleep and waking. Looking at the jeans, shirt, sweater, socks, underwear and boots strewn about his disarrayed bed, he ignored a now cursing Bahorel in favor of finding the one responsible.

Grantaire.

And he was _angry_.

Grantaire was never a cheerful riser. He preferred to laze about in the stage between asleep and awake for as many hours as he could reasonably appropriate from an otherwise useful morning. When forced to rise before he was ready, he was irritable, short with his words, and even shorter with his actions. Couple that to whatever mood had clearly ridden him to bed and then followed him from that bed upon waking this morning… and he was in a foul temper.

"I need you."

Once those words were uttered, Grantaire turned on his heel and marched back into the living room. They were only three words, but they were the only three words Jehan needed to hear. But as Jehan shifted to swing his legs over the side of the bed, Bahorel caught his hand. So, he turned, an oft-repeated explanation already on his tongue -- yes, last night was more than agreeable, but Grantaire comes first and you'll just have to accept that -- when it became clear it wasn't necessary. Bahorel simply smiled, lifted Jehan's hand to press his lips to the back and said quietly, "You'll let me know if there's anything I can do to help?"

In that moment, everything seemed to stop, the world putting itself on pause as Jehan allowed those words to filter through. The understanding in Bahorel's eyes, the sad smile in his voice… he _got it_. As gifted as Jehan had always been with words, he had never been able to articulate before to a lover that though he might love them, Grantaire would always come first. And it always came between he and others in the end. It was one of many reasons he preferred to keep his assignations brief and casual -- because no one before had understood. No one before had even tried. And yet, here Bahorel was, not only understanding but _accepting_ … and that had never happened before.

Jehan allowed himself to melt against Bahorel for one precious, stolen second more, to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and press their lips together, to briefly touch Bahorel's tongue with his own, before pulling back and whispering, "You can count on it."

Five minutes later, Jehan was dressed, bundled up in his winter gear, and accepting a travel mug full of his favorite coffee from a grim-faced Grantaire. Jehan didn't like that look. That look did such awful things to the state of his stomach that he was unable to take even a sip of his coffee, no matter how tempting the aroma. Grantaire's face was not just grim, it was… _dead_. Grantaire's entire body held the stiff, rigid posture of one with a foot already in the grave. His face was set, immovable… granite. Jehan knew that look well and, for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to race back inside and beg Bahorel to come with them on whatever errand Grantaire had planned. He didn't. He knew Grantaire well enough to know that doing so would only end in him leaving them both behind, and Jehan would _not_ allow Grantaire to be alone when like this -- not when this suicidal shroud hung about him like a miasma.

For that was what this was. Grantaire held the look of one about to destroy himself. And Jehan could only be grateful that he'd remembered his promises well enough to bring him along for the ride. The aftermath of this would be terrible -- Jehan could see that already -- but if he was lucky, he would be able to help Grantaire contain the damage so as not to only destroy the part of himself he was currently set on destroying. And if he was even luckier, there would be enough of his friend left when the smoke cleared to help Jehan piece him back together.

* * *

Jehan was crying. Grantaire heard it as though from a long way off -- distant, heartbroken crying. If anyone else had caused Jehan to make those sounds, Grantaire would have been on them in a flash, done whatever needed doing to ease the pain in them. But, Grantaire knew damned well who had caused those sounds. And attacking the one who had done it would only make things worse. Wiping the knife in his hand off on his jeans, Grantaire turned to face Jehan. He was curled in the corner of the studio, as far away from the damage as he could get, pale and horrified and fragile. Grantaire didn't like seeing him that way, liked even less knowing that he'd been the cause of it. He put the knife down, wiped his hands off on his jeans, as well, ignored the streaks of crimson they left behind. "It's OK, Jehan. It doesn't mean anything. None of it means anything."

"How can you say that?" Jehan stared, eyes widening at the wreckage Grantaire had left in his wake. "You… Grantaire, you did it in two months, but this was an entire semester's worth of work! You put your soul into those paintings -- I could see it! How can you say it doesn't mean anything? _There's nothing left!_ " His voice caught then, his breathing turned ragged. "I think I may throw up."

Grantaire snorted out a bitter laugh, kicked at the broken remains of a frame. "Be my guest. You can't make any more of a mess than I've already made."

Before Jehan could answer, a deep voice spoke from the doorway -- hushed, barely more than a breath, as though to speak any louder would make this real when its owner desperately wished it wasn't. "Ay dios mio… Jean Prouvaire… your beautiful work! Who has done this?"

Grantaire turned, then, and Jehan gasped, lurched to his feet at the wild look in Grantaire's eyes, his hand outstretched as though to stop the words he was about to utter. Grantaire ignored him, said deliberately and distinctly, "I did. And I'm not Jean Prouvaire." Jerking his head towards Jehan, he added, "He is."

Jehan let out a whimpering cry at those words, his arm dropping and his entire posture deflating. After several minutes of stunned silence in the wake of that announcement, Jehan straightened once more, eyes bright with unshed tears and quickly narrowing. Flexing his hands hard at his side, Jehan said, "Damn it, R… _why_? Why would you…? After everything we've done to-- Why?"

Professor Mercado nodded along with Jehan's words, adding his own before Grantaire could answer, "I, too, would like the answers to these questions. Though, I care less about the question of your name as I do about why you would destroy work in which you have invested such time and effort. Je-- no. Air? That is your name?"

When Grantaire shrugged, listless now that the damage was complete, Jehan clenched his fists once before forcing them open again. He turned to Professor Mercado and said, "Professor Mercado, my friend's name is Grantaire. Please forgi--"

"Jehan." Grantaire's voice was firm and brooked no argument. Jehan's heart sank at the tone. "If I wanted forgiveness, I'd have asked for it, myself. It happens that I don't."

Professor Mercado ignored Grantaire's comment in favor of turning to Jehan to thank him. He then turned back to face Grantaire. "Grantaire, I trust that you have your reasons for having deceived me. I trust, too, that you will share them so that I can decide upon a course of action going forward from this point. But what I most wish to know at this moment is why you would destroy your work as you have done. Is this simply a need to start fresh? If so, I can certainly understand. If not… is there some other purpose to such wanton destruction?"

Grantaire shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie and shrugged. The look on his face was set and still. "Professor Mercado, you can do as you please with the information you have. I'm not going to explain myself to you, nor will I be back after today. This has been a frivolous, useless waste of time. And you can tart it up all you like, but we all know that I've barely enough skill to even make a hobby of this and a hobby won't earn me a living. I'm best off quitting now before I've wasted any more of my time or yours."

Turning to the table, Grantaire flipped open his wallet and pulled out three $100 bills, folded them neatly, and tucked them under the knife he'd placed there earlier. "This should cover the cost of the cleaning. If it doesn't, send Jehan a bill. He’ll get it to me. Good evening, Professor. In spite of things turning out like this, I wish you well." With those words, he turned on his heel and marched out of the room. He didn't meet anyone's eyes as he went.

* * *

It hadn't taken long for Grantaire to find a bottle after he left Professor Mercado's studio. It hadn't taken long for him to lose himself inside it, either. This was easy. This was comfortable. This was familiar. Drinking. Getting drunk. Destruction. That was what he truly excelled at. 

Sneering down at the bottle in his hands, Grantaire tipped it back and took another drink. He didn't even know what he'd bought. Some ratgut whiskey from some filthy store in some dingy part of the city which golden boy Enjolras wouldn't have been caught dead in.

…Enjolras.

It all came back around to him in the end, didn't it? Grantaire knocked back another swallow of whiskey. He'd turned on Skype last night on a whim, hoping to knock his heated emotions against the sounding board which Courfeyrac had rapidly become for him over the last few months, maybe gain a fresh perspective, a chance to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. That wasn't what he'd gotten. Instead, he'd gotten Enjolras. And Enjolras, that self-righteous _prick_ , had-- no. No, it wasn't worth getting worked up about all over again. It wasn't. It wasn't, it _wasn't_.

Enjolras was in love with him.

Him.

_Rebus._

Jehan had warned him. Fuck, he'd even warned himself! He'd known what he was getting into, he'd said. It was just a game, he'd said. He just wanted to see what it would take to get under Enjolras' skin, he'd said. What the fuck had he been thinking? He'd been just as taken in by his own deception as Enjolras. Somehow he'd tricked Enjolras into believing that Rebus was someone worthwhile, someone with noble motives, someone worth looking up to… someone worth loving. He wasn't. He really wasn't.

Tipping the bottle back to his lips and finding that there wasn't a drop left in it -- when had that happened? -- Grantaire frowned and moved to push himself to his feet. The ground shifted beneath him with that action and he fell back hard into his seat, the shock of it leaving him breathless. Moments later, the ground seemed to roll, again, and his stomach went with it. _Oh… not good._ Lowering his head quickly between his knees, Grantaire took in the shallowest breaths that he could, willing his stomach to stay put. It had been years since a single bottle had made him sick enough to throw up. He was _not_ going to start that count over again.

Several long minutes and many heated arguments with his stomach later, Grantaire was finally able to push himself back up into a sitting position. Where the hell was he, anyway? Grantaire squinted around him, peering into the deepening dusk, looking for landmarks. He thought… was that…? No. No, it wasn't. Cursing under his breath, he pulled his phone from his pocket, frowned at the blinking message light. Jehan. It had to be.

Thumbing open the message program, Grantaire scrolled through a series of increasingly frantic, then increasingly resigned texts. There was a momentary stab of guilt when Grantaire realized that Jehan had spent the entire day looking for him, forgoing whatever Valentine's Day festivities he'd had planned in favor of chasing after one ungrateful best friend. Some best friend. The last message read simply, ~ _I'll be at the Corinthe with Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel. Please, R… just let me know you're all right._ ~

Guilt stabbing away at him with every throb of his temple and every roll of his stomach, Grantaire typed back, ~ _Still alive. 'All right' may be an exaggeration. Don't let me ruin your evening. -XX_ ~

Jehan's response came barely five seconds on the heels of Grantaire hitting send.

~ _Call me._ ~

Wincing already at the blistering lecture which was sure to come from that phone call, Grantaire knew he wasn't up for it. He wasn't. Jehan would be worried. He'd be frantic. He'd probably be halfway to drunk himself by now, and he'd want _explanations_. And Grantaire… fuck, it was selfish of him and he knew it, but he just wasn't up for that phone call. He couldn't face telling Jehan, _again_ , what a worthless piece of shit he was. He couldn't face saying it out loud. It was bad enough that it was bouncing around inside his head. He wrote back, ~ _No. :P Sorry,_ ~ and then turned off the message program. He considered turning his phone off entirely, but thought better of it, brought up the GPS instead.

It took several minutes of squinting to figure out exactly where he was on the map, several longer minutes of staring at his surroundings to figure out where that meant he was, and several of the longest minutes of his life spent trying to scramble off the park bench to his feet before he realized that he wasn't going anywhere without assistance. But… who could he call? Bahorel was with Jehan at the Corinthe. Joly and Bossuet, too. And the last thing he wanted was to include any more of his friends in this debacle of a day. Let them enjoy it. But who else did he know with a car who would be willing to pick him up… and wouldn't ask any questions?

Bringing the cold glass of the empty whisky bottle up to brace against his aching head, Grantaire thumbed open his contacts list, hoping for a sudden surge of inspiration.

…Courfeyrac.

Grantaire paused, finger tapping against the side of the screen. Courfeyrac had a car. He'd had plans to help out Eponine at the Musain tonight, but surely she could spare him for long enough to come pick up her favorite regular and ferry him to the bar, couldn't she? It was practically a better-business service. Before he had a chance to place the call, however, his phone alerted him to a message of another sort, entirely.

Opening the relevant app, Grantaire stared down at the message in stunned disbelief. Moments later, he'd placed a call to a cab service to take him home. This was too much. On top of everything else, it was really too much.

…but far be it for he to turn down the chance for one last act of brilliant self-sabotage.

~ _Hello, Rebus! I would like to add you as a contact. --Enjolras_ ~

* * *

~ _You love me._ ~

Enjolras stared at the words, his heart leaping into his throat and doing a nervous jig as he tried to decide how to respond. He hadn't expected Rebus to accept his contact request so quickly, especially not after last night. Last night… fuck. Last night, he'd blurted out the words without thinking, stumbling over himself to attempt to explain something which really couldn't be explained. It was no wonder Rebus had rejected him. He must have seemed as a child, a complete innocent in the throes of his first crush.

…the fact that he practically _was_ an innocent in the throes of his first crush was completely irrelevant. Rebus didn't need to know that. Especially not now that, for whatever reason, Rebus had not only accepted his contact request, but _responded_ to it. He could do better this time. He _would_ do better this time. Somehow, he'd make Rebus understand that his love was no less real for having been spawned in a purely online space.

 _Spawned. Good grief. I've got to find a way to say that that doesn't make me sound like a salmon._ Enjolras winced, fingers hovering over the keyboard before hesitantly typing back, ~ _That's what I said, yes._ ~

The response was immediate. ~ _Regretting those words already, are you, Enjolras?_ ~

~ _I'm not!_ ~ Enjolras cursed, heart starting up yet another jig at the base of his throat and making him feel as though he might vomit from nerves. He forced himself to take a deep breath before typing back, ~ _I regret the way in which I told you, the way I virtually attacked you with that knowledge, but I don't regret telling you -- you deserved to know how I feel._ ~ His fingers hesitated on the keys for a moment, then typed, ~ _And I certainly don't regret loving you._ ~

There was a pause after that, and Enjolras could picture Rebus sitting back from the keyboard, eyes pensive, long fingers tapping against his lips as he processed this new information. If Enjolras could have reached through the screen and captured that hand in his, stilling its nervous tapping, placing kisses on those supple fingers, he would have… and the realization that he would rocked him to the core. So, he kept his peace, waited patiently for Rebus to respond. When he finally did, though… Enjolras couldn't have been more surprised. The responses were short, choppy, not at all the eloquence that Enjolras was used to seeing from Rebus.

~ _You shouldn't._ ~

~ _Love me, that is._ ~

~ _I'm not worthy of it._ ~

~ _If you knew me…_ ~

Enjolras shook his head, frowning harder and deeper as each successive line of text appeared on the screen. Finally, he typed, ~ _Stop it! How can you say that? You're intelligent, creative, talented, and articulate. You argue circles around me, and that is NOT easy. How could I not love you? There are so many things about you to love!_ ~

~ _Talented._ ~

~ _Creative._ ~

~ _Intelligent._ ~

~ _If you had ANY idea how ridiculous you sound… JFC, Enjolras. You have no idea what you're talking about. I'm a complete waste of your time, and the only one who doesn't seem to know that is you._ ~

Enjolras stared at the words on the screen, completely at a loss. This wasn't like Rebus, at all. Maybe it was the immediacy of being on Skype, maybe it was the unexpectedness of Enjolras' confession, but whatever it was, it had turned Rebus into a stranger, and Enjolras didn't like it. He didn't like seeing anyone so down on themselves and seeing _Rebus_ this down on himself was a thousand times more awful. Carefully, deliberately, Enjolras typed back, ~ _You are not a waste of my time, and I will do whatever I must to help you see that._ ~

When no answer was forthcoming, Enjolras frowned. ~ _Rebus?_ ~ No answer. ~ _Rebus, are you there?_ ~ Still no answer. Enjolras stared at the screen, at the blinking cursor for a minute, two minutes… three. Finally he typed, ~ _This is ridiculous._ ~ 

~ _I'm not nearly as persuasive by text as I am by voice._ ~

~ _I'm going to call you._ ~

~ _If you still want to maintain some semblance of anonymity, I suggest you turn off your webcam._ ~

Enjolras waited another minute before hitting the video call button. It was stupid to be nervous. Rebus probably wouldn't pick up. He wouldn't… he _had_. Rebus' side of the screen was dark, of course, and there wasn't even a hint of sound -- he'd muted his microphone, too. Enjolras silently called himself ten kinds of a fool for even letting himself hope that Rebus would do otherwise. After another moment of silence, during which Enjolras had far more time than he wanted to realize that he didn't exactly look his best, Rebus typed, ~ _I'm listening._ ~

And now that the moment was here… Enjolras hadn't a clue what to say. "Hello" seemed ludicrous, given that they'd already greeted each other. "Nice to meet you" seemed equally ridiculous. "I love you" was out of the question. In the end, he settled on, "This isn't like you. To be so down on yourself. Did something happen?"

~ _Nothing happened,_ ~ was the immediate response. ~ _And why are you so certain that this 'isn't like me'? YOU DON'T KNOW ME._ ~

Enjolras leaned forwards, staring as earnestly at that black square as he could, "But, I do! I know what you believe in. I know that, as much as you claim to be equally apathetic, the apathy of the general citizen frustrates you. I know that you expect me to be the best that I can be. I know that it irritates you when I turn too idealistic. I know what music you like. I know your favorite foods. I know your favorite color. I know you have more passion than anyone I've ever met, save a very select few. I know you'd fit in with my friends as though you were made to be there. _I know you._ And this isn't you. You have more respect for yourself than this."

There was a moment of silence, then, and Enjolras feared he'd gone too far, too quickly. Rebus seemed so strangely fragile right now… he wasn't sure if what he was trying to do was helping or hurting. After a few moments of silence, during which Enjolras had to restrain himself from saying anything more, Rebus typed, ~ _Maybe I've been lying to you all this time._ ~

Then, ~ _Maybe none of what you know of me is true._ ~

Finally, ~ _Maybe I'm as worthless as I claim to be, and if you met me face-to-face, you'd disdain me as much as I do myself._ ~

Enjolras shook his head, reached out a hand to touch the screen. "I have to have faith that that isn't true. I have to believe in you, the way you believe in me. The alternative is unthinkable."

~ _I'M NOT WORTH YOUR TIME._ ~

"Rebus… I'm the one who decides who is worth my time and who isn't. And I say you are. You are very much worth my time. So, forgetting everything else… will you not at least tell me what prompted this melancholy?" Enjolras stopped then, holding his breath, hardly daring to hope that Rebus might respond to that plea when he hadn't responded to any which came before.

~ _I…_ ~

Enjolras nodded encouragement, reached out to touch the screen again, as though that tenuous connection might lend Rebus the strength to continue.

~ _I had a fight with a person I care for deeply._ ~

~ _I rejected an overture of… fuck, I don't even know what it was, out of pride._ ~

~ _…and I threw away my entire future, because I couldn't see any point to continuing a charade, a pretense at talent I don't have, any longer._ ~

Enjolras had no glib words of reassurance to offer. He bowed his head, tears unexpectedly rising into his throat, as he considered Rebus' words. That was considerably more than the bad day he'd thought Rebus had had.

~ _Not so easily fixed as you thought, is it, Enjolras?_ ~

"No… No, I suppose not." Enjolras frowned, raised his head to stare into the black square of Rebus' screen once more. "Maybe… fixing it isn't the answer. Maybe what you need to do is escape from it for a little while, come at those problems from a fresh perspective another day."

~ _I've had plenty of distraction, Enjolras. My favorite kind, too -- liquid distraction, liquid courage, liquid amnesia, liquid… liquid. But it doesn't help. I still remember. It still hurts. And this is still pointless._ ~

Seizing on the idea that shock value might get him somewhere that subtlety had not, Enjolras hatched a plan in that moment. Someone needed to snap Rebus out of this funk. And since Enjolras had no idea who he was in real life, that left him very few options to work with. Taking a deep breath, Enjolras said, "I have a better idea for a distraction, but first… you have to answer a question for me." When Rebus' only response to that statement was to type a single question mark, Enjolras rolled his eyes, but asked, anyway… "Ignoring for now how you do or don't feel about me in particular… are you gay?"

There was a moment's pause before Rebus typed back, ~ _Gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide._ ~

Enjolras couldn't help but smile at that. If Rebus had returned to joking, then Enjolras at least had him intrigued… and that wasn't nothing. Leaning closer to the screen, Enjolras said, "Then perhaps you'll let me play Crowley to your Aziraphale for the night… and provide you a little temptation."

~ _You've read Good Omens._ ~

Enjolras laughed. He could all too clearly imagine the dry, disbelieving tone that Rebus' voice would have held as he made that statement. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that his mental image of Rebus' voice in moments like this sounded disturbingly like Grantaire. Shaking off the thought, he said, "Yes, I've read Good Omens. Courfeyrac discovered Terry Pratchett when we were in middle school and when he read it, he decided I had to read it, too."

~ _If he likes Terry Pratchett, so much, I'll have to suggest he look up Christopher Moore when we next speak._ ~

"Don't bother." Enjolras' lips tipped up into a wry smile. "Our friend, Combeferre, beat you to it by a little over ten years. Now, are you stalling me deliberately or are you really that interested in Courfeyrac's reading preferences?"

~ _Pfft. All right, you caught me. What did you have in mind for temptation, angel?_ ~

"Don't you have that backwards? Crowley's the demon, Rebus."

~ _He may be, but you don't have it in you. You're an angel through and through. You should see the way the light's playing off that wild hair of yours, right now. Makes you look like you've got a halo. You're an angel, all right. An avenging angel, all wrath and justice and righteous fury… I'd like to paint you someday, I think._ ~

Enjolras stared at the words filling up the screen, wondering at what he'd unknowingly set off with that comment, and wondering further why it felt like someone had spoken those words to him before.

~ _…_ ~

~ _…_ ~

~ _…you know what? Ignore me. I'm not worthy of even trying to paint you and I'm pretty drunk. What was that you said about a distraction? And what does my sexuality have to do with it?_ ~

Right. Right. That… Enjolras swallowed hard, mentally cursed as he felt the heat rising in his cheeks. Before he could convince his throat to unlock and allow him to speak, however, the little pencil on the screen was moving, again.

~ _Oh ho ho! I think I begin to see. That blush is telling. A little presumptuous of you, though, Enjolras. To offer sex as a distraction from my crashing and burning life… especially when I've already turned down your declaration of love. That's a slippery slope, my friend. I don't think you want to start down it._ ~

Enjolras blushed harder. "I guess that was a bit presumptuous…"

~ _LOL! …a BIT?_ ~

Crossing his arms over his chest, Enjolras frowned. "Well, you don't have to laugh at me. It's not like I do this all the time, you know."

~ _Oh my. Are you a virgin, Enjolras?_ ~

Though he was glad to see that light-hearted teasing creeping back into Rebus' communication, Enjolras could have wished for him to have picked a different target… and a different topic. "And if I was? Virginity is a social construct invented by the patriarchy to take a woman's right to her own body and choices away from her. It has no place in the here and now."

~ _Whoa, whoa, whoa! Take it down a notch. I wasn't taking a jab at your life choices, nor was I suggesting support of a ridiculously outdated system designed for nothing more than to objectify the body. I was merely using it as a lead in to tell you that you're adorable when you're flustered and that the words "blushing virgin" have definitely sprung to mind. So, whatever it is that you think you're offering to do… thank you, but no._ ~

Though he blushed even harder with each word that appeared on the screen, Enjolras couldn't help but smile. _That_ was the Rebus he knew. Leaning closer to the screen, he said, "…then maybe you'd like me to model for you, instead?"

~ _No._ ~

Enjolras stared at the word on the screen for nearly a minute, stunned at the immediate abruptness of that shut down. "But, you--"

~ _I said no, Enjolras. You don't need a no-talent hack butchering your image. I'm through with art and it's through with me._ ~

Enjolras let out a soft cry of denial at that, eyes widening. "But… Rebus… I've seen your work! You're talented. You're very talented. You can't just give up!"

~ _I can and I did. And if that's all you want to talk about, then I think we're done here._ ~

"No, wait!" Enjolras shook his head, reached out to the screen in entreaty, "We can talk about something else, I just… I hate to see anyone's talent wasted. And whether you agree or not, I believe you have talent. I'd rather see you use it to support me than to undermine me… but you definitely have talent."

There was a brief pause, then Rebus typed, ~ _I'm hanging up, now._ ~

"Wait! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll… I'm sorry." Enjolras shut his mouth, then, worried that if he continued talking he'd somehow say the wrong thing, again.

There was a tense moment of silence, then Enjolras let out a heartfelt sigh of relief when the little pencil finally started to move, then a mild sound of dismay when it stopped. When it started again, he smiled, relieved beyond measure that Rebus wasn't actually hanging up as threatened. A moment later, he whimpered when the pencil flipped over and began erasing what had been written and laid itself down. By the time the pencil started moving again, Enjolras was clutching his knees tightly enough that he could feel his own nails, even through the denim.

What Rebus finally typed in response was, ~ _You, uh… DO realize I can still see and hear you, right?_ ~

"Yes… Why?" Enjolras stared at the screen, a confused frown on his face.

~ _Because you are making the most adorable and yet somehow arousing noises and it's making me regret turning down that offer._ ~

This time when Enjolras blushed, he was sure he could feel it all the way up into his hair. When he finally collected himself enough to respond, he said, "The offer's still on the table if you've changed your mind…?"

~ _No. I still don't think that's… look, Enjolras. You said you love me, but you don't really know me. And you just kissed that other boy -- Grantaire, you said his name was? And, mistake or not… you still did it. So, that tells me that you're not really sure WHAT you feel and for whom. And since I gather that you don't view sex anywhere near as casually as I do, I just don't think that's a good idea._ ~ There was a pause, then Rebus added, ~ _I don't want you to do anything that you'll regret two hours later._ ~

And as quickly as that intense blush had formed, it now faded, leaving Enjolras cold and a little light-headed. Rebus was right. Solemnly, he nodded. "Rebus… maybe… maybe we should just forget about that 'I love you,' OK? Not that I didn't mean it, because I did. But, because… I think maybe you need a friend now, more than you need someone crushing on you. And… I'd like to be that. If you'll let me."

~ _You want to be my friend._ ~

~ _…weren't you that, already?_ ~

"No…" Enjolras paused, though for a second, then shook his head. "I don't really think I was. If I was your friend, I'd have realized that something was wrong last night. I would definitely have realized something was wrong today. I would have put your needs before my own. I don't know the whole story, and I know you don't want to talk about it, but I know that an artist as gifted as you doesn't give up on his art on a whim. And you mentioned having a falling out with someone you care about… Rebus, I never even asked if you were seeing anyone before blurting out that confession." He held up a hand when the pencil started moving and hastily said, "Not that you have to tell me one way or the other, but… the fact that I don't know that already makes me think that you were right. I don't know you as well as I thought I did… and I suspect that you know me far better than I know you. I'd… I'd like a chance to change that. If you'll let me."

The pencil flipped over, made it's little erasing motions, then laid itself back down. Enjolras spent the next two minutes staring resolutely at the screen, willing that little pencil to reappear. When it finally did, it posted these words: ~ _You were right. You are more persuasive face-to-face._ ~

Enjolras smiled. "Is that a yes?"

~ _Against my better judgment… that's a yes._ ~

Enjolras fought the sudden desire to pump his fist in the air, but he did give Rebus a fierce smile. "You won't regret this."

Rebus wrote back, ~ _…I already do._ ~

Then a minute later, ~ _Oh shit. My brother's here and we're due for an argument. I've got to go, Enjolras. We'll… we'll talk again soon._ ~

Immediately after that, the video call was ended and Rebus was gone. Enjolras had just as much trouble falling asleep after this conversation than the last one, only this time… it was because he couldn't stop smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feel free to stop by and say "Hi" on [tumblr](http://eirenical.tumblr.com). I promise I don't bite. ^_~


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bracing his head in his hands, Grantaire folded down onto the couch, leaned into Jehan when Jehan joined him there a moment later. He said, simply, "Jehan… I'm in trouble."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _August 22, 2014:_** I'm tempted to just drop this here and say "posted without comment" for sheer embarrassment... but yeah, since when have you ever known me not to have something to say? ^_~ Obviously finishing this story is going far slower than I ever intended it to go when I started posting it as a WiP. For those of you keeping up on my life, you know that this summer has not been the relaxing space I thought it was going to be. It's been exactly the opposite, actually. I've had this chapter sitting half-finished on my hard drive for over a month and just couldn't de-stress enough to even go near finishing it. I'm sorry for that, especially considering what a cliffhanger I apparently left it at. I did my best not to do that again with this chapter so, if it was another three or four months between updates (which it very well may be), at least it won't be so bad? But I absolutely promise you, no matter how long it takes, I AM GOING TO FINISH THIS STORY. So... yeah. For those of you who have left encouraging words or come to find me on [tumblr](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/), I appreciate it. To those of you who have read and enjoyed the smaller stories I've been posting in between getting up the energy to finish this chapter, I appreciate that, too. Hopefully you'll all find the wait worth it. ^_^
> 
> Thanks for staying with me!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/95501088482/follow-you-follow-me-chapter-16-bracing-his).

"You owed me better than this! Do you have any idea what today has been like for me? Do you even care?"

Grantaire winced as another pillow went whizzing by his head to flop against the wall behind him. He'd had barely enough time to get out of that Skype conversation with Enjolras before Jehan had caught him at it. And considering how upset Jehan was already, Grantaire was only grateful that he didn't have knowledge of his Skype antics as ammunition, too. 

Jehan had started screaming at him the moment he walked into the apartment, had started throwing things shortly thereafter. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red-rimmed. But he only threw things which would take no damage from the throwing, and he was precise in his aim so as not to damage anything else, even Grantaire. So, Grantaire had taken it silently, stoically, ready to intervene if it became necessary but knowing full well that he deserved every foul word Jehan had to throw at him. But, as careful as he was with Grantaire's belongings, Jehan was even more careful Grantaire; though he had plenty to say about how he felt about Grantaire's actions, he didn't have one single bad thing to say about Grantaire, himself.

…it was better than Grantaire deserved.

Eventually Jehan wound down, ran out of soft things to throw, ran out of words, as well, and simply stood in the center of Grantaire's living room, hands flexed hard at his sides, head bowed, dragging in air as though he couldn't get it into his lungs fast enough. When he raised his head, eyes haunted and shining with tears, Grantaire finally spoke. 

"I'm sorry." 

Jehan's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth -- no doubt to deliver another blistering lecture. And if the deep breath he was taking in was any hint of the volume with which he intended to deliver it, Grantaire didn't think his aching head would bear it.

Holding up a hand and wincing away, Grantaire said, "Wait! Please, I… I know that 'I'm sorry' doesn't cut it, OK? I know that. But it's all I have to offer. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I'm sorry. I _do_ care and I'm so **so** sorry, Jehan. I wasn't trying to hurt you."

Far from having the calming effect Grantaire had intended, those words only seemed to enrage Jehan more. Before Grantaire realized what was happening, Jehan's fists were clenched in the front of his shirt and he'd been shoved back against the wall -- a move far more reminiscent of another night and another blond than Grantaire was entirely comfortable with -- and Jehan was saying, "No. I'm sure you weren't trying to hurt me. That's the worst part. You were trying to hurt yourself." One of Jehan's fists unclenched and drifted from Grantaire's shirt collar to rest over his heart. "What ever happened to 'I promise to take care of this heart as though it were yours'? Is this how you would treat my heart, R? You would destroy what is most precious to it and leave it to wallow in pain, loneliness and despair? That you would let me think for even one second that I am unworthy of love is one second too long." Jehan unclenched his other hand, let it ghost up to cup Grantaire's cheek, and said softly, "Or is it just that you forgot? What good is a promise, Grantaire, if you forget you've even made it?"

Grantaire's breath caught at those words, at the pain clear to read beneath them. He _had_ forgotten. So wound up in his determination to further his own misery, he'd forgotten that promise, forgotten what it meant. He'd been so wrapped up in his own pain, that he'd forgotten that whatever pain he caused himself, he would also cause Jehan. Because that was Jehan's nature. When he gave his heart, he gave it completely and without reservation. He would take on the recipient's joys and pains as though they were his own… and so he had taken Grantaire's.

There was a soft whimper, then a quietly hitched breath, an even softer sob. Grantaire didn't even realize he'd been the one to make them until Jehan pulled him into his arms and started softly petting his hair, murmuring nonsense words of comfort into his ears. They stood like that for minutes, hours, days maybe, for all Grantaire knew, clinging to each other as if each were a piece of driftwood in an endless ocean.

Eventually Jehan stepped back, pulled his sleeve over his hand and started gently dabbing at the corners of Grantaire's eyes. Shaking his head, he said softly, "This is no good, mon coeur. You can't go on like this. You agreed years ago that you would live -- for my sake if not for your own -- but this isn't living. This is existing, nothing more. I would see you happy, if I can."

Grantaire backed up a pace, skirted away from Jehan along the wall until he reached the center of his living room. What Jehan was asking… Grantaire didn't know if he had it in himself to give. Every time he thought he saw a way out, it turned into yet another trap, another cage. And Enjolras… what the _hell_ had that been tonight? His heart gave a soft lurch in his chest, started beating just a shade faster, just a touch harder. Seeing Enjolras' face, so full of worry, so full of concern, for _him_ … it was like a cherished dream. But that was all it ever could be -- a dream. Enjolras didn't love _him_ , he loved Rebus. And he wouldn't even love _him_ if he knew who Rebus truly was. Enjolras saw Grantaire as an inconvenience, at best. At worst… Grantaire could imagine only too well.

Bracing his head in his hands, Grantaire folded down onto the couch, leaned into Jehan when Jehan joined him there a moment later. He said, simply, "Jehan… I'm in trouble."

A warm pair of lips placed a gentle kiss to Grantaire's temple and Jehan pulled him close. "I know, mon coeur… I know. Why do you think I'm here and not out celebrating my favorite pagan love festival?" When Grantaire looked up, there was a small, sweet smile quivering on Jehan's lips. "My heart belongs first to you and to no other. When you are in pain, where else could I be? Now, come. Let's put our heads together and see if we can't find a solution to this trouble of yours that doesn't involve shouting and breaking things, shall we?"

…of course that sweet temperament only held until Jehan learned of Grantaire's latest conversation with Enjolras. Two hours later when that second heated discussion was over and they crawled into bed to cuddle off its aftershocks, Grantaire was only grateful that Jehan's reaction had really been fairly mild.

…he hadn't much cared for that vase, anyway.

* * *

_Damn you. You fucking promised. You said you'd be here. You knew I'd be short-handed. You're damned lucky your friends are willing to cover for you when you flake out._

Eponine turned towards Marius. "You tell your roommate," she said, "That he is on my shit list." She glared at Marius as she slapped the towel down on the bar to wipe more vigorously at the spill she'd just made than was absolutely necessary. "You do _not_ volunteer to help someone out and then bail on them at the last minute. I don't care what hot date drops into your lap."

Marius wasn't going to give her a fight, though. When he'd first walked across the threshold of the Musain that night, sheepishly offering his services in Courfeyrac's place, Eponine had been surprised, touched even. She still wasn't entirely sure how to react around him. She loved him. Sometimes she thought she might love him as much as she did Cosette, and that frightened her, made her feel fickle in ways she wasn't comfortable with. But, every time she thought she had finally gotten up the courage to end this odd dance between the three of them, he would do something that would make her love him that much more. She loved how Gavroche had warmed up to him, loved how his presence in her life had even brought Azelma back around to deigning to speak with her. She loved how easily he fit into their lives, how he'd added a dimension to her relationship with Cosette that she'd never even realized she wanted. She loved how he helped her step back to see the larger puzzle, loved how he gave her fresh perspective, ever new and exciting ways to appreciate everything she had. She loved _him_.

It was just that sometimes she didn't _like_ him very much.

Giving the counter one final swipe, Eponine finished pulling the two beers she'd been preparing before that little bobble. Right now she was spoiling for a fight. Valentine's Day brought out the worst in her. It always had. She'd never been able to see the day as anything but an enforced chore, a way to con the masses into pretending to affection that they didn't really feel. She'd hated it since she was a child, hated the false love her mother had showered on her and her siblings, foster and otherwise, to show off for CPS. She'd hated knowing that the second the doors were closed it would be right back to the same lackadaisical neglect that she suffered through all year.

It wasn't until very recently that Eponine had tried to give Valentine's Day a second chance. Why? Because Cosette, of course, loved it. She loved every red heart decoration, every oversized box of chocolates, every bouquet of clichéd red roses. Her fathers had showered her with gifts every Valentine's Day since she came to live with them, lavished attention on her which was not then slighted every other day of the year to make up for it. And she, in turn, lavished that love and attention on her fathers, then on Eponine and Gavroche, and now on Marius, as well. It was enough to set Eponine's teeth on edge, sometimes, but she did her best to reciprocate as much as she could. Some years, though… some years the memories were too much, and she just couldn't do it. This was one of those years. So, she'd done the honorable thing. Rather than ruin it for everyone else, she'd decreed that Marius should take Cosette out on a date and that she would spend it working. Valentine's Day was always a big day at the Musain and if she couldn't enjoy it, she could at least do the very American thing of capitalizing on it.

…and then Courfeyrac had gone and wrecked her plans by failing to show up. Eponine had texted and called and e-mailed and tried every method of contact to no avail. She'd finally called Marius in the hopes that he would go bang down his roommate's door for her. Instead of doing so, he'd simply shown up at the Musain in Courfeyrac's stead to offer his services, such that they were. And he tried, she had to give him that, but he wasn't the crowd draw that Courfeyrac was and he wasn't as skilled a waiter either. There were _reasons_ she'd kept him in the back as a dishwasher and busboy when he'd worked for her before. But there was nothing for it. Marius was who she had, so he would have to do. So, instead of Marius and Cosette enjoying a romantic dinner while Cosette's fathers watched Gavroche, Gavroche was now out to dinner with Cosette and her fathers, and Eponine had Marius underfoot at the Musain. And he was being so damned solicitously _nice_ that it made her want to smack him. No matter how she needled at him, he refused to engage her in any of her argumentative gambits. He'd even had the gall to tell her that he was happy that things had worked out this way, that he'd missed the days when they'd worked together, that he'd missed spending time with her, seeing her in charge and in her element. Snorting softly under her breath, she'd replied, "Idiot."

Marius reached out a hand to brush it gently along Eponine's cheek before following up that caress with an even softer brush of lips. "That may be. But as of last I checked, I'm _your_ idiot."

Even as she rolled her eyes at the overblown dramatics, Eponine caught Marius' hand and pressed a kiss of her own across the knuckles. "Yeah, yeah. And what does that say about _me_ , I wonder?" He laughed then, bright and joyful, as he relieved her of the two beers and moved confidently out into the crowded bar to deliver them. He might not have Courfeyrac's charm, certainly wasn't pulling in the kind of tips Courfeyrac would have done, but at least the small touches of romantic show were keeping everyone entertained. And if that kept them in the bar and buying drinks, well… Eponine was not one to look a gift waiter in the mouth.

A hand went up from further down the bar and Eponine shrugged off her irritation to go see what the owner of the hand wanted… and when she saw who it was, she nearly veered back the other way and sent someone else to go see to him. What the hell was Enjolras doing here, anyway? But there was no one else to send. Squaring her shoulders, Eponine continued down to his end of the bar. When she reached him, a scowl was already firmly set on her face, and she pushed the confrontation right up front and center. "I am in no mood for your crap today, pretty boy. If you're not here for a drink or with a date, you can just march your tight little ass back out that door. I'm busy."

With each word delivered, Enjolras hunched in a bit further on himself, until he was doing a decent impression of a turtle trying to hide in his shell. When Eponine finally stopped speaking, he uncurled just enough to say, "Combeferre called me. He said that you'd texted Courfeyrac and that it sounded like you urgently needed help and…" He took a breath, "Courfeyrac is exhausted. According to Combeferre, he fell asleep at 11 PM last night and hasn't woken up yet. Combeferre doesn't want to leave him and we don't know anyone else that could take his place that isn't already working tonight and… I don't have a date?"

Eponine stared at him for several long moments, reluctantly letting go of her anger at Courfeyrac in favor of trying to sort out exactly what it is that Enjolras was angling at. What on Earth did Enjolras not having a date have to do with-- oh no. No no no. She held up both hands and shook her head vigorously back and forth. "Oh no. Oh, _hell_ no. Have you ever even waited tables before?"

Enjolras shrugged, folded his arms across his chest as he hunched back down. "No. But how hard can it be?"

"How hard can it…? Oh, you precious summer child. Only someone who's never waited tables would ask that question. I'm not sure even you can begin to afford to replace all the glasses you'll break if I let you try this."

"But--!"

"No buts, Enjolras. I appreciate the offer, but I am _not_ going to waste time teaching you the ropes on one of the busiest nights of my year. You'll be more trouble than you're worth."

Enjolras jerked his head in the direction of the tables. "You have Marius helping. Marius _can't_ be any less hopeless than you think I am."

It took everything Eponine had in her not to laugh at the clearly put-out expression on Enjolras' face. She lifted a hand to rub at her forehead. "Enjolras, Marius has worked for me before, remember? He worked for me for almost a year. He may not be amazing at it, but he does know how to wait tables. You don't. If you're really dead set on learning, I'll be happy to teach you another time, but tonight's not the night."

Enjolras frowned but loosened the grip he had on himself and lowered his arms to the bar. There was a plaintive note in his voice when he next spoke that Eponine had no idea what to do with. "Is there _anything_ I can do to help?"

Eponine sighed. "Why are you so set on being a martyr to my busy bar tonight?"

"I…" Enjolras started to speak, stopped again almost immediately. When he started again, his entire posture deflated, his chin dropping nearly to his chest and his shoulders slumping, as well. "I had a long talk with Rebus over Skype tonight. It made me realize that I haven't been as good a friend as I'd like -- not to him, not to Combeferre, not to Courfeyrac, not to any of you. Do you… Eponine, do you have any idea how exhausted you have to be to sleep for over twenty hours and for someone to still not be able to wake you? Do you have any idea how long Courfeyrac and I have been friends? I should have _seen_ this. I should have seen that he was working himself too hard. I've seen him do it before. I know the signs. I know what to look for. And somehow I still missed it. And I can't do anything to make it up to him directly until he wakes up. So for now… this is what I can do. I can try to be a better friend to everyone else, and I can pick up some of the work he left behind when he collapsed. That's it. So… please? Just let me do _something_. Anything. I don't care."

Eponine met that shining blue gaze head-on when Enjolras looked up and was not unmoved. But, good grief, what a mess. Finally she shook her head. "I can't let you wait tables, Enjolras. I really can't. Not tonight." When he opened his mouth to object, she held up a finger for silence. He subsided, though reluctantly. "What you _can_ do for me, if you're willing to, is wash dishes." She paused, raised an eyebrow. "I, uh… assume you know how to wash a dish." Enjolras blushed, but nodded. She smiled. "Good. Then you can wash dishes while Marius waits the tables. You're both in luck that my busperson didn't call out lovesick." Reaching under the counter, she fished out an apron and handed it over along with a pat on the shoulder. "Come on, then. I'll show you to your new domain."

To his credit, Enjolras did nothing worse than pause briefly at the door and pale when he saw the mound of dishes already waiting for him. Eponine waited for the objections, for the arguments, for the sudden remembrance of other more important obligations… but none was forthcoming. Enjolras' eyes steeled, his fist clenched and he nodded once before briskly tying the apron on over his clothing, rolling up his sleeves and marching over to the sink to get to work. Eponine watched as he dove into the pile of dishes with the finesse of a pro, then slowly backed out of the kitchen. She had to call R.

* * *

~Could have been the whiskey, might have been the gin. Could have been three or four six-packs, I don't know, but look at the mess I'm in! My head's just like a football, I think I'm gonna die! Tell me, me oh me oh my… wasn't that a party?~

Grantaire fumbled for his phone, cursed when he heard the crash as it fell on the floor. "Damn it. Slippery little--"

"R? What the--?"

Grantaire patted the lump of blankets that was concealing Jehan from the rest of the world. "My phone. Go back to sleep. I'll see who it is."

Jehan let out a low moan and pushed the blankets off his head. "No use. I'm up." He yawned, ended up opening his mouth several times and making faces as his tongue came into contact with the rest of his mouth. "Blech. It tastes like I… you don't want to know what it tastes like I ate. I'm going to brush my teeth. Lemme know what's up when I come back." With that, he levered himself out of Grantaire's bed and stumbled towards the bathroom.

Grantaire finally fished his phone out from under the bed and winced at the brightness of the flashing LED light. Unlocking the phone, he played back the message… and nearly dropped the phone in shock. He played it back twice more before Jehan returned and prodded him for the news. He turned towards Jehan, eyes wide and mouth dry. "Enjolras… He's at the Musain. Right now. Washing dishes. Because… because Rebus convinced him he needs to be a better friend. Jehan…" Grantaire couldn't help the smile that broke out across his face as his heart starting to race. "Enjolras listened to what I said. He listened and he… he changed."

Jehan's response was short and to the point. "Bullshit."

Wordlessly, Grantaire turned on the speaker and started the message playing again. When it was finished, he merely lifted an eyebrow and waited.

Jehan stared at him, stared at the phone, then let out a heavy sigh. "He did this for Rebus, Grantaire. Not for you. You shouldn't get your hopes up." When Grantaire simply nodded serenely in response, Jehan sighed again, lifted his hands to rub at his temples. "You're going to the Musain, aren't you?" When the corners of Grantaire's lips lifted up into a small smile and he nodded again, Jehan grumbled, "Not without me, you're not."

* * *

"How many dirty dishes can one bar generate in a night?" Enjolras whimpered as he stared at the new stack that had been waiting for him on his return from the restroom. It felt like he'd been washing dishes for days, not hours, and his hands were getting chapped and starting to peel from the hot water and the gloves. This was ridiculous. Wouldn't a dishwasher make more sense?

A voice spoke up from the door to the kitchen. "Had enough already, pretty boy? Your delicate hands can't handle the job?"

Enjolras bristled, turned to face Eponine's mocking smile and lifted eyebrow. "I'm no quitter." When Eponine's only response was to lift her other eyebrow, Enjolras waved a hand at the newest pile of dishes. "Seriously, though, have you ever thought about a dishwasher?"

Eponine laughed. "I have! Tonight, you're it, Enjolras. What? You'd rather have me purchase a piece of machinery and eliminate a job?" At the stricken look on Enjolras' face, Eponine laughed again. "Ease up, pretty boy. It's not going to happen any time soon. The speed at which I need those dishes washed… I crunched the numbers on it a long time ago and it wouldn't be an efficient use of money." Nodding in his direction, she said, "That's not why I'm here though. You've been at it for two hours already and that's tough on a body that's not used to it. You need a break?"

Scowling and crossing his arms over his chest, Enjolras reiterated, "I'm no quitter."

"I never said you were." Eponine's smile softened and she reached out to wrap a hand around Enjolras' shoulders. "Come on. You're exhausted. The dishes aren't going to get up and walk away. You can take a break for something to eat. Whatever you like. It's on the house, OK?"

Enjolras would have liked to argue further, but at the mention of food, his stomach let out a low grumble. When Eponine's smile widened, he could feel the heat rushing to fill his cheeks and he ducked his head to hide the blush he knew must now be there. "Maybe… maybe some of those fried pickle spears? Courfeyrac got me a bit addicted to them last time we were here…."

Letting out a short laugh as she led him from the kitchen, Eponine said, "Want to add a little protein to that? Pickles aren't going to get you very far if you're on your feet for another three hours."

Enjolras refused to let himself stop walking or whimper when she said "another three hours," but it was a near thing. Instead he offered up a meek, "Mozzarella sticks?"

Eponine pushed Enjolras down onto a stool at the bar and handed off his order to Marius to deliver to the kitchen. In the meantime, she filled a large glass of water and put it down in front of him, motioning him to start drinking. "Secretly a fried food junkie, huh? Can't say I blame you. Though if mozzarella sticks are your idea of a sufficient protein, remind me to get you to talk to Cosette about a proper diet someday."

Enjolras finished off the glass of water and held it out for a refill. He hadn't realized exactly how thirsty he'd become until he took the first swallow. Once he'd downed half of the next glass, too, he asked, "Is Cosette a personal trainer or something?"

Eponine shook her head. "She keeps in shape and she knows what she's about in a gym, but no. She's working her way towards a PhD in nutritional biochemistry. Has an interest in developing diets that are nutritionally balanced and affordable for people in underprivileged neighborhoods." She snorted. "And I know that mozzarella sticks and fried pickles aren't on her list for a recommended diet."

Enjolras fell silent then, nursing his glass of water as Eponine answered a wave from the other end of the bar. Beyond his brief interactions with her at meetings, Enjolras didn't really know much about Cosette. He didn't know much about Eponine, either, for that matter. He fought off another blush when he realized exactly how right Rebus had been. Enjolras hadn't been a very good friend lately. Then again, that was what tonight was about. Being a better friend. Being less selfish. He could do that. He _would_ do that. And he could start here, tonight.

When Marius brought Enjolras' food over, however, that resolve crumbled along with the loud grumbling of his stomach. It was 11:00 PM and the last thing he'd eaten had been sometime around lunch… and the mere smell of the pickles was enough to get him salivating. Marius just smiled and waved off his half-hearted attempt at conversation before getting right back out on the floor to collect another drink order. Enjolras made a few more attempts to flag down either Eponine or Marius to talk while he ate, but both proved elusive. Apparently it was a busy time of night. _Very_ busy. Enjolras winced at the sheer numbers of dishes he saw coming out of the kitchen and the numbers of glasses leaving the bar… and the numbers of both going back _into_ the kitchen. With a sinking feeling, Enjolras realized that, though the bar might close at 2:00, he could end up having to stay all night to get the dishes done at this rate. He began to eat faster.

…until an accidental inhale at the wrong moment put a rather abrupt end to that plan. A bit of the juice from the last pickle went down the wrong way and Enjolras started to cough, eyes watering from the feeling of the vinegar hitting the back of his throat and going down the wrong way. A firm but gentle hand began patting and rubbing his back as he reached for his water, desperate to clear the feeling of vinegar from his mouth. The soft patting was exactly what he needed to calm himself enough to get the coughing to stop and take that drink. Once he had his breath back, he turned to his unknown savior, a thank you already on his lips -- a thank you that died unspoken before it even made it to his vocal chords. "…Grantaire?"

Grantaire shrugged, turned away to pick up his drink from the bar and take a generous sip before answering. "You may not be high on my list this weekend, but that doesn't mean I want to see you choke to death."

Belatedly, Enjolras offered those waylaid thanks. "I… well. Thank you." Embarrassed to have been caught choking on his food like a two year old, he offered a mumbled explanation. "Juice from the pickle went down the wrong way."

Grantaire made a carefully sympathetic expression and said, "Yeah, that hurts like a wicked bitch. Only thing worse is choking on your own saliva."

The corner of Enjolras' lips twitched upwards before he could stop it… but not before Grantaire saw it and answered it with a brief smile of his own. Saluting Enjolras with his glass, he took another sip, then moved to get up off the bar stool. Before Enjolras even realized what he was doing, he'd reached out and caught at Grantaire's sleeve. When Grantaire turned back and lifted an eyebrow, Enjolras felt his face heat again. He dropped his hand and said simply, "Stay?"

Grantaire leaned back against the bar, one hand cradling his drink to his chest, the other propping him up at the elbow, hip cocked in a way that practically screamed 'sass', and his other eyebrow climbing up to join the first. And like that moment in his apartment yesterday, there was something so _off_ about that posture that it stopped Enjolras' voice right in his throat. That casual confidence, that mocking smile, the oversaturated bitterness in his eyes… that wasn't the Grantaire that Enjolras knew. It wasn't the one that he _wanted_ to know.

…but it was the one he had.

Forcing himself to sit up a little straighter and meet that biting gaze, Enjolras added, "Please?"

Grantaire answered with an explosive snort which drew Eponine's attention from the other end of the bar with a querying, "Boys…? Do I have to split you two up?" 

And _that_ drew Jehan's attention and that was something Enjolras most _definitely_ didn't want. He hadn't even realized that Jehan was here and his addition to conversations between Enjolras and Grantaire never helped anything. Enjolras' started glancing quickly back and forth between Eponine, Grantaire and a Jehan who was scowling even as he picked his way through the crowded bar to get to them, and hastily leaned over towards Grantaire to say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the other night. I was wrong. I shouldn't have done it -- taken advantage of you like that. I may not always agree with you and you may be a royal pain in my ass sometimes, but you didn't deserve that. No one does. And I'm sorry. OK?"

Without taking his eyes from Enjolras, Grantaire held up a hand in Jehan's direction. Jehan sighed and rolled his eyes, but he did move off, back in the direction of the young man he'd been chatting with before he came to intervene for Grantaire. Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. That relief was short-lived.

Grantaire lowered his hand, finished off his glass and put it back on the bar with an ominous thunk. Not once did his eyes leave Enjolras' face. That burning intensity made him squirm, but he didn't raise a word in protest. He was starting to feel like he deserved whatever discomfort Grantaire wanted to dish out to him. Suddenly, Grantaire lifted his hands and rubbed them vigorously over his face. He then dropped down onto his bar stool and spun to face Enjolras, his gaze no less intense than before but now slightly more open, at least. He said, "It was a prick move, that's for sure. Shit, Enjolras… what if I hadn't been capable of fighting you off? Would you have listened if I'd said no?"

Enjolras' mouth dropped open at those words. A moment later, seeing all too clearly what Grantaire was implying, his stomach churned and he clamped a hand to his mouth. He would _never_ \-- but Grantaire didn't know that. And how could he? Jolted forcibly into viewing his actions from an outside point of view, Enjolras had to admit that they weren't the most favorable of actions -- and not just his actions from the other night.

Enjolras had always been gifted with an ability to cut through the wool often laid over young eyes to see the bitter realities of life. He didn't look away when the homeless of New York reached out their hands to ask for change, anything he could spare. He hadn't since he was a small child. And his heart went out to those people who had so little when he had so much. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. And he saw the people who came to Combeferre's mother's clinic -- people who couldn't afford health insurance, people who could die of completely treatable diseases -- and it sickened him. There was so much pain in the city he called home and he wanted so badly to fix it.

…but that was different. Connecting to strangers, to people he'd never see again, was… well, it was easier. Forming meaningful relationships with people he'd have to see over and over and over again? That wasn't. If it hadn't been for Courfeyrac deciding to be a bridge for him -- between Enjolras and everyone else -- Enjolras probably never would have made any friends his own age. He never would have met Combeferre. Because how did a person form friendships with people who didn't see the world the way they saw it, who could walk down the street and not meet the eyes of a single person who was suffering? That lack of common ground, that differing opinion… it sent Enjolras into a near-panic whenever he realized that he didn't have the proper tools to communicate. So, he didn't even try, even when there might be common ground, like with Combeferre. Courfeyrac had suggested once that he see a therapist about it, had thrown around words like "social anxiety" and "Valium" and Enjolras had panicked at that, too -- hadn't been able to talk to him for a month.

They'd been sixteen.

Courfeyrac hadn't brought it up again and Enjolras had done his best to hide it after that. But if you hide from a problem, you can't do anything to fix it. And Enjolras was discovering -- vehemently and horrifically -- that he was no better now than he'd been as an adolescent. If anything, he was worse. Communicating with people who mattered, one-on-one… he was still abysmal at it, and it still terrified him.

Finally, Enjolras pried his hand loose from where it was clamped over his mouth and got out a small, "Yes. Of course, I would have," before clamping his hand back over his mouth and returning to convincing his rolling stomach that eating hadn't been a bad idea.

Grantaire leaned in, took a closer look at Enjolras' wide eyes and tightly clamped hand and said, "Well… no need to get that upset. I was just trying to make a point." When all Enjolras managed in response was a feeble nod, Grantaire sighed heavily, "OK, look. I was a jerk. You were a jerk. Neither one of us is very good at communicating with the other, OK? I was sending off some seriously mixed signals at you and you read the wrong ones. The important thing is that you _did_ stop and… look, no hard feelings, OK?"

Enjolras looked down at Grantaire's hastily extended hand, then back up into his worried gaze. He lowered his own hand, but didn't take Grantaire's. Instead he said, "You shouldn't let me off the hook that easily."

Grantaire blinked, jerked back in startlement, at those words. "Excuse me?"

Letting out a small groan, Enjolras dropped his head into his hands. "I don't… friendships are hard for me. I don't entirely understand them. I don't entirely understand people, in general, I guess. Whatever social cues you're supposed to learn as a child to make friends and keep them… I must have missed that class. I do all right with my parents. I do all right with Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, too, to some extent. But outside of them… it's hard, OK? I feel like I never know what I'm doing and I screw up _all the time_ and always end up hurting people I care about. But how am I supposed to learn any better when every time I hurt someone they just forgive me and tell me it's OK?"

Grantaire's eyes widened at that explosion of words, then narrowed as he snorted in bitter amusement. "No wonder you and Jehan don't get on. You're way too damned much alike." At Enjolras' raised eyebrow, Grantaire shook his head, "Never mind. I get the feeling you're not entirely talking about me anymore, anyway."

Enjolras let out a short laugh filled with many emotions, none of them humor. "I… no. I guess I'm not." He swallowed hard, hunching in on himself as his thoughts turned inwards. "I'd rather not talk about it, though."

"Fair enough."

Silence fell between them, then, strained and not entirely comfortable. Enjolras kept feeling as though he should say more and then stopping before he did because he also felt like he had no right. After several false starts between them, Grantaire finally said, "I realize you're trying. And I realize that you're going to probably keep screwing up until you learn better. But learning these things usually goes faster with a little help… and I'm guessing that if you felt comfortable going to a professional or asking Courfeyrac or Combeferre for that kind of help, you'd have done it by now, right?"

At Enjolras' slow nod, Grantaire let out a breath and ran his hands through his hair before getting out the rest in a rush. "I'm probably going to regret this the instant I'm fully sober, but… I'm willing to help. I'm no expert at the art of making friends, but I helped Jehan with a similar problem once and at least I'm someone you can run things by when you think you might be about to royally fuck up. I mean… you already care so little for my opinion, so you shouldn't care if you make an idiot of yourself in front of me, right? So there'd be no need for you to be embarrassed."

Enjolras stared at Grantaire for a full minute after that little speech, mouth agape and eyes wide. When he finally got his voice back in working order, he said, "You'd really do that for me?"

Looking as though, sober or otherwise, he regretted this offer already, Grantaire nodded. "Yeah, I would."

Enjolras stared for another full minute before blurting out, "For fuck's sake, _why_?"

To Enjolras' everlasting surprise, Grantaire's cheeks flushed a bright red at that. He turned away and waved Eponine down for a refill of whatever he was drinking and wouldn't speak again until the full glass was in his hand -- a double, this time. Grantaire downed a good third of it in one swallow before speaking again. "Remember how I owned up to sending you mixed signals?" Enjolras nodded. Grantaire let out a nervous laugh before continuing. "Right. Well, I don't like what you did the other night. It wasn't right and I sure as hell don't want to end up there again, but… I do like you. Probably more than I should. Fuck ups, anger management issues, social awkwardness, and all. And I'm not in the habit of being optimistic anymore, but… I don't know, man. There's something about you. I can't shake it and I can't ignore it and maybe I'd like to try my hand at finding a more productive way to deal with it that doesn't end in us screaming at each other."

Enjolras snorted. "We tried that once already, remember? That truce ended in you being even more of a jerk to me than before."

"This is different." Grantaire's words were so firm, so definite, that it stopped Enjolras' response in its tracks. Seeing that, Grantaire finally smiled. "Before… that was both of us trying to be people we weren't, trying to deal with each other in ways that aren't natural to either of us. This is us giving each other a chance to actually act like ourselves around each other and see how we really feel. This… this is us being real."

"Being real…" Enjolras echoed the words, a slow answering smile forming on his face. "I think I like the sound of that." Lifting his glass of water, Enjolras leaned forward to clink it against Grantaire's glass. "Here's to us, then… the real us."

At those words, Grantaire's smile widened -- and it might have still been a little sad around the edges, but it lit his eyes and left Enjolras a little breathless with its beauty -- and he echoed softly, "To us… I'll drink to that."

Before Enjolras could answer that sincerity, Eponine appeared and clapped a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. She leaned over to plant a firm kiss on his cheek and said, "Pfft. You'll drink to anything, R." Turning to glare at Enjolras, she said, "And I said 'a break for something to eat' Enjolras, not 'license to fuck off for two hours.' Those dishes aren't washing themselves, you know. If you really worked for me, I'd be docking you pay by now."

Flushing hotly, Enjolras downed the rest of his water in one careful gulp and scrambled off his stool. "Right. Right. Sorry. I just--"

Eponine laughed. "Don't get your panties in a bunch. I'm kidding. But since you've actually gone and made nice with someone I consider a friend," She leaned over to peck Grantaire's cheek with another kiss, "Then I'll even let you extend that break a few minutes to go use the restroom before you get back to work."

Enjolras met Eponine's gaze for another moment and, for once, thought he understood her true intent. As mercurial as Enjolras had been towards Grantaire in the last several months, she probably didn't trust him. And considering how he'd been acting towards Grantaire recently, Enjolras wouldn't blame her if that were the case. So he would back off for now. Then when Grantaire was "sober enough" to decide if he regretted this or not, they'd see where they really stood. And in the meantime, he had dishes to wash.

…and after tonight, if he never saw another dirty one for as long as he lived, it would be far too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is completely unbeta-ed and, as usual, any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone... and forgive me if there are more than usual. I got impatient to post this chapter once it was done and I just couldn't wait. -.-;;;


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Saturday morning_
> 
>  
> 
> Enjolras jigged back and forth, unable to keep still as the bus lurched along to its destination. He'd gotten home late last night, far later than usual, having spent half the night at the Musain. When he'd gotten home, he'd been hard pressed to fall asleep, wound up and overtired from the late night combined with the missed sleep of the night before. By 8 AM, he'd finally forced himself into bed to try to get at least a little rest… and that was when Combeferre had texted. Just two words and Enjolras had been into his coat and out the door within minutes of reading them.
> 
>  
> 
> _~He's awake.~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _November 30, 2014:_** And HERE'S FYFM chapter 17. I told you it was nearly ready. ^_~ As always, I'm sorry for the long time between updates. I'd promise that was going to get better, but at this point, I think I'm resigned to the fact that it won't. My life has been a bit of a disaster this year and at this point, I'm just hoping 2015 will be kinder. *heavy sigh* ANYWAY, I promise I haven't given up on this story. I absolutely haven't. Nor will I. It's just taking me longer to get to the finish line than I expected. -.-;;;
> 
> ANYWAY. For those of you who wanted to know where Combeferre and Courfeyrac have been... you're welcome. For those of you in this for Grantaire... next chapter. Promise. ^_^ And for anyone curious about side things I've been up to, as an exercise in tumblr memes, I ended up writing a 3000-ish word [alternate ending to Kiss You, Kiss Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2619416) about a week ago. So, if you're interested, feel free to check it out. ^_^
> 
>  ** _Timeline Note:_** So... it's been a while since I've posted. Because of that and because of some interesting timeline structuring in this chapter, I felt I should offer a brief memory refresh for those of you who don't remember what happened in the last couple of chapters and don't feel like rereading them. ^_^ The last chapter left off on a Friday night at the Musain. Enjolras was washing dishes and had just had a long talk with Grantaire. Earlier that evening he'd had a Skype chat with Rebus -- his second. Courfeyrac had been at Combeferre's since the night before (Thursday night) -- the same night Enjolras had his first Skype chat with Rebus, his disastrous kiss with Grantaire and that Les Amis meeting where everything did its best to go to hell. This chapter takes place on Saturday morning with an extensive flashback to Friday afternoon/evening. Hopefully that clears things up. If not... feel free to ignore everything I just said. ^_^
> 
> And now... Onward! :D
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/103989248057/follow-you-follow-me-chapter-16-saturday).

* * *

**_~~~Saturday morning~~~_ **

* * *

Enjolras jigged back and forth, unable to keep still as the bus lurched along to its destination. He'd gotten home late last night, far later than usual, having spent half the night at the Musain. When he'd gotten home, he'd been hard pressed to fall asleep, wound up and overtired from the late night combined with the missed sleep of the night before. By 8 AM, he'd finally forced himself into bed to try to get at least a little rest… and that was when Combeferre had texted. Just two words and Enjolras had been into his coat and out the door within minutes of reading them.

_~He's awake.~_

* * *

**_~~~24 hours earlier~~~_ **

* * *

Though Enjolras had waited patiently, as Marius had asked, Courfeyrac never came home from Combeferre's. The only reason he agreed to go to class was Marius' insistence that surely Courfeyrac would be there. He wasn't. By noon, Enjolras had had all that he could take of waiting. He left Marius with the admonishment to take good notes for them and went to seek out his wayward best friends.

After a brief stop back at Courfeyrac and Marius' apartment -- just in case -- Enjolras headed over to Combeferre's. It wasn't unreasonable to think that Courfeyrac could still be there, but he should at least be awake by now. He should have texted. Normally he would have. Enjolras frowned, wondering what on earth the two of them could be up to that would have kept Courfeyrac from answering any of the numerous text messages Enjolras had sent that morning. It wasn't that they didn't have a right to spend time together without Enjolras. It wasn't that Enjolras felt he had any kind of right to know where either of them was at any given time. It was just that he was worried. It wasn't like Courfeyrac to just… not respond to a text. Even if he was on a date. Courfeyrac _always_ answered Enjolras' texts. It was how their friendship worked. By the time Enjolras reached Combeferre's apartment, all kinds of dire circumstances had managed to play themselves out behind his eyelids. At this point, he didn't even care why Courfeyrac hadn't answered. Enjolras just wanted to know that he was all right.

The door to Combeferre's apartment was already opening when Enjolras reached the landing. Enjolras raised an eyebrow, more confused than he cared to admit when Combeferre slipped out the door, put a finger to his lips and motioned him back a pace. He was tight-lipped, tense in posture, and looking as though he'd slept as few hours as Enjolras had. The fact that he was home at all, when he too should have been in class, was more than enough to confirm Enjolras' fears that something was very, very wrong.

Once they were away from the door, Combeferre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Enjolras waited patiently for him to speak. When he did, it was in a tight whisper. "Marius texted me to tell me you were on your way."

Of course. Enjolras should have thought of that. Texting Combeferre. He _would_ have thought of that if he hadn't been so worried. Next time. He'd remember next time. Though he really, really hoped that there wouldn't _be_ a next time. He hoped Courfeyrac never did this to him again. Whatever "this" was. Because he still didn't know. Enjolras waited for Combeferre to elaborate, feeling stifled by the silence but so thrown off by last night's fiascos with Grantaire and Rebus and then Courfeyrac's disappearing act this morning that he didn't even know what he'd say if he was given a chance to break it. When another minute passed with Combeferre not offering anything more, Enjolras made a frustrated noise which even a kind person wouldn't have called a word and motioned with his hand that Combeferre should keep talking.

Combeferre let out a sigh at that. "Enjolras… I know you're having problems. I know you want to talk to Courfeyrac about them, but…"

Enjolras found his voice at last, worry pooling in his gut at Combeferre's reticence. "But?"

"But he's exhausted. He barely made it to 11:00 last night before completely crashing, and I couldn't wake him this morning. If you really need him that badly, I'll try again, but I'd rather let him sleep." At Enjolras' raised eyebrows, Combeferre shrugged. "Joly promised to take notes for me if I didn't make it to class." He didn't add, 'Because I have no intention of going anywhere until I know that Courfeyrac is OK,' but he might as well have.

"Is he sick?" Enjolras frowned, sure he would have noticed if Courfeyrac was seriously ill or becoming so. They'd known each other since they were children. Enjolras might not have been seeing as much of him recently -- they'd all been busy -- but if Courfeyrac was that sick… surely he would have picked up on it?

Combeferre's immediately offered warm smile was reassurance and guilt-inducement all wrapped up in one. Shaking his head, he said, "No. He's not sick, Enjolras. Like I said, he's tired. He's been working himself pretty hard -- too hard, apparently." At Enjolras' raised eyebrow, Combeferre sighed, pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I did some digging this morning. Thanks to Joly and Bahorel, I know he's been helping out Eponine and Musichetta when things get busy at the Musain and the Corinthe. And Marius informed me that he's taken on a few shifts in the law library on campus, as well -- something about beefing up his resume. And then there's all the work he does with us for Les Amis, not to mention his classwork. And before you ask, no, I have no idea why he's driving himself this hard, but I'm going to make sure he gets some rest today if it kills us both."

Enjolras took a step back, turned away. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. He swallowed against the sensation and the nausea that accompanied it. Mentally tallying up the nights he'd seen Courfeyrac lending a hand at one of the two establishments they frequented when holding meetings, the number of times Courfeyrac had bowed out of study sessions because he was "going to spend some time by himself in the library," the number of times Enjolras had chastised him for drifting off during planning sessions for Les Amis meetings… Enjolras didn't like the picture that was shaping up at all. Swallowing again, he asked Combeferre, voice small and uncertain, "Can I… do you mind if I…?" He couldn't even say the damned _words_. Finally, he turned back to Combeferre with pleading eyes, beyond aware that he'd fallen back on a far earlier pattern of social interaction -- one which he'd thought he'd long since outgrown -- of being helpless to communicate if Courfeyrac wasn't there.

Taking pity on him, Combeferre waved him inside. "You can stay. And if you're willing to help me move him into the bedroom, I'll take a stab at helping you with this problem you so very obviously wanted to dump on him when you came rushing over. Deal?"

It wasn't what Enjolras wanted -- not by a long shot -- but recognizing that it was either this or be shut out altogether, he nodded. He paused only long enough to peel out of his coat and stomp the cold from his feet before making his way over to the couch. Courfeyrac had curled onto his side, his back to the room, one bare arm stretched out of the blankets and over his head. The rest of him was swaddled in a nest of blankets, cocooned from toes to nose. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and he twitched in his sleep, so tense that he was unable to keep still even when unconscious.

Heart sinking, Enjolras let himself drop to perch on the coffee table and reached out a hand to clutch at the blankets. Enjolras had seen Courfeyrac like this only once before. They'd been sixteen years old and Courfeyrac's father had been home on one of his rare month-long visits between diplomatic assignments. Courfeyrac had run himself completely into the ground that month -- pushing himself academically, participating in club activities for clubs he didn't even belong to, throwing himself into his soccer practices as though he would make the game his life's ambition. He'd maintained that pace the entire time his father was home, finally showing up on Combeferre's doorstep the night after his father left, shaking and grey with the exhaustion of a month's worth of sleep debt. Only waking long enough to periodically eat and take care of bodily needs, he'd slept the entire weekend through. It had taken him several weeks past that to recover enough to clear the bruised look from his eyes. And Enjolras hadn't known about it until after Courfeyrac had already collapsed… because they hadn't spoken that entire month beforehand.

Courfeyrac looked even worse now than he had then… and Enjolras hadn't even seen it happening. How had he not seen this happening?

Catching his lip between his teeth, Enjolras turned to look at Combeferre, still lacking words, unable to do anything more than clutch at the blanket in his hand and hope Combeferre understood what he couldn't say. Combeferre usually did. Stepping forward, Combeferre dropped a hand onto Enjolras' shoulder and said, "I told you he was exhausted. Don't beat yourself up about it, Enjolras. He'd be the first to tell you he wouldn't want that. Besides…" Combeferre swallowed hard. "You're not the only one of us who missed it."

* * *

Enjolras stayed at Combeferre's until dinner time, only rousing from his self-appointed watch when Prouvaire texted him, asking if he knew where Grantaire was. Which was a ridiculous question on so many levels that Enjolras couldn't believe that Prouvaire had asked it. But that text was enough to break him out of his state of shock, enough to remind him that there was a world outside of Combeferre's apartment.

He silently met Combeferre's gaze, then deliberately turned off his phone to not risk disturbing Courfeyrac again. Combeferre turned away then, shoulders hunched and more tense than he'd been all day. He'd stayed strong for both of them, recognizing Enjolras' need for reassurance and giving it unquestioningly. It wasn't until that moment that Enjolras realized that _Combeferre_ had had no one to lean on. Enjolras did that sometimes, trusting his best friends to take care of each other without needing him. It was what they did. Combeferre took care of Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac took care of everyone, and it had been that way for so long that Enjolras couldn't remember a time before it. Only it wasn't that way now. Combeferre had been doing all the taking care today and Enjolras had been letting him do it. And that wasn't all right. That wasn't all right by a long shot. Combeferre needed someone, needed reassurance just as badly as Enjolras had.

Enjolras rose from the position he'd occupied all afternoon -- curled up behind Courfeyrac, face tucked against his back, one arm curled protectively over and around him -- and walked over to Combeferre. Silently, he opened his arms. It's what Courfeyrac would have done. Enjolras knew that well, knew how warm, how reassuring those hugs felt. He didn't know if Combeferre would accept that kind of affection from him -- he never had before -- but he couldn't think of anything else to do. He stood there, arms open, waiting for Combeferre to turn away, to refuse that comfort. They stared each other down, Combeferre tense and suspicious and Enjolras tense and unsure and then… something broke. Combeferre's gaze flitted away from Enjolras towards Courfeyrac. It was just for a moment, but his face twisted. The strength he'd been holding up like a shield cracked and he turned back to Enjolras, let himself fall into Enjolras' waiting arms, burying his face and a noise suspiciously like a sob in Enjolras' neck.

Enjolras just stood there, holding Combeferre in his arms, gently rocking him back and forth, more shaken than he cared to admit to see Combeferre break down like that. In that moment, Enjolras understood something -- something about Combeferre -- which Courfeyrac had told him but he'd never really believed.

….Combeferre was capable of deep, unreserved feeling; that it was, in fact, his default state.

Enjolras had never understood that until now, had bought into the calm façade Combeferre usually presented to strangers, even though he'd known better. Courfeyrac had told him… Enjolras had just never really listened.

Courfeyrac had always said that Combeferre was excitable (though the words he'd used were: "He's such an unbelievably large nerd, Enjolras you don't even _know._ "). He'd said that Combeferre was passionate, too. ("Such. A. Nerd. Enjolras. He _babbles_. Like… legit babbles. You can't shut him up sometimes. He seriously never does that to you?") …and he was unforgiving when someone hurt one of his friends. _That_ Enjolras knew. Courfeyrac had recounted the story of how they'd met often enough and Enjolras had seen that aspect of Combeferre's personality in action. But Combeferre hardly ever let the passionate side of himself show with Enjolras. Combeferre was always patient with him, always gentle. He didn't raise his voice or make any sudden or hard to interpret actions. He held himself in check -- he always had -- and Enjolras had never realized. He only ever let that side of himself show around Courfeyrac. 

Maybe… maybe Rebus had been right. Enjolras _wasn't_ a very good friend; he couldn't have been. He'd been leaning on Combeferre and Courfeyrac for years, letting them pick up slack that he couldn't be bothered to pick up… and he'd unintentionally hurt Courfeyrac, and he'd forced Combeferre to pretend to be someone he wasn't, just out of his own selfishness. It was inexcusable. Enjolras tightened his arms around Combeferre, lifted a hand to stroke through his hair and down his back. He would do better. He _had_ to do better.

Eventually Combeferre got himself back under control, pulled out of Enjolras' embrace, and gently suggested that Enjolras go home. Enjolras didn't want to leave. He wanted to walk back over to the bed and curl up behind Courfeyrac again, hold him close until he woke up. It was thoughts of Combeferre which stopped him -- Combeferre trying so hard to hold it together for Enjolras, trying so hard to be calm and not let his own worry show… Combeferre who had to be nearly as exhausted as Courfeyrac by now from the strain of keeping his emotions buried around Enjolras. He would never have said so out loud, but the plea that Enjolras leave so he could properly give in to his own worry was clearly written in the dark circles under his eyes, the permanent frown line between his brows, his disheveled appearance. And for once, Enjolras read the signs correctly. Nodding slowly, he gathered his belongings, made Combeferre promise to call if anything changed. He didn't think he was mistaken in the relief he read in Combeferre's eyes when he answered those words with a soft, "I will. I promise."

When Enjolras got home, he spent some time on Tumblr, replying to a few asks and putting a few articles in the queue for the next week, but his heart wasn't in it. His heart was still in Combeferre's apartment with his friends. But he owed Combeferre this much, at least, to give him some time alone with his worry for Courfeyrac. Eventually he pulled his laptop back over, stared down at the little "S" icon on the taskbar, taunting him with that debacle of a conversation he'd had with Rebus last night. Not ready to sleep by a long shot, Enjolras pulled out his phone and opened his texting app, looking for the message he'd sent himself yesterday. Finding it, he entered the e-mail address he'd copied from Courfeyrac's Skype yesterday and, heart pounding, sent Rebus a friend request.

…and Rebus answered.

* * *

**_~~~Saturday morning~~~_ **

* * *

That conversation with Rebus had been an eye opener, showing Enjolras quite clearly that he had been an even worse friend than he'd thought. Fortunately for him, even distracted as he'd been and not Enjolras' confidant of choice, Combeferre had given him sound advice that afternoon. For the first time in a long time, Enjolras thought he and Rebus had made real progress and it had filled him with such joy that for a moment, he'd managed to forget his worry.

…more fool, he.

That was when Combeferre had called. Eponine had texted Courfeyrac and, obviously, not reached him and she'd been livid. He'd apparently promised to help out at the Musain that night. Marius had texted, too, for much the same reason -- Eponine had also called him. And Combeferre had reached the end of his rope. To know that Courfeyrac had pushed himself to the point of exhaustion this extreme was one thing -- to know that he'd blown off Valentine's Day to do it… that was something else entirely.

Valentine's Day was Courfeyrac's favorite holiday. He never lacked for a date, either, even if just for that night. He would dress in cheerfully clashing hues of red, purple and pink and gleefully give out Valentines and chocolates to every single one of his friends and acquaintances. If he wasn't throwing a party of his own, he was at the most happening club in town, dancing the night away.

…and he'd given up on all of that to help Eponine at the Musain. Enjolras didn't know why, but he knew it was something that couldn't be overlooked. After spending another few minutes clinging desperately to the phone at his ear, he'd quietly told Combeferre that if helping Eponine was important enough to Courfeyrac that he would skip his favorite holiday, Enjolras would make sure that Eponine got the help she needed. In ten minutes, he'd been in a taxi on the way to the Musain and Eponine had a willing (if not necessarily able) volunteer for the night. And Courfeyrac had slept through the whole thing.

And now, nearly 48 hours after falling asleep at Combeferre's, Courfeyrac was finally awake. And Enjolras wanted answers.

* * *

The bus lurched to a stop two blocks from Combeferre's apartment and Enjolras pushed his way to the front to get off. Shivering in the morning air, he pulled his wool coat tighter around himself, shoved his hands under his arms, and started walking. When he reached Combeferre's building, he took the stairs in twos, pounded furiously at Combeferre's door when he reached it, so out of breath he was nearly wheezing. Combeferre opened the door, making no comment over Enjolras' frazzled appearance, simply nodding towards the kitchen. Sure enough, Courfeyrac was there, squinting muzzily at the door and chewing determinedly through a piece of toast. So when Enjolras dropped into the chair next to him without even bothering to shrug off his coat, and Courfeyrac's only response was to raise an eyebrow and say, "What's all the fuss?", Enjolras could have throttled him.

Enjolras stared, mouth dropping open, and between gasps, repeated, "What… _What's all the fuss?_ Are you kidding me? You just slept for two damned days and you're asking me what's all the fuss?" Enjolras paused, took in enough of a breath to get the last bit out without interruption then said, "I was worried, you idiot!"

Courfeyrac at least had the decency to look contrite, but he didn't give a helpful answer, either. "I was tired, I guess."

"You were tired… you guess."

Really, Enjolras thought he was doing very well at this whole "not strangling his best friend" thing. Courfeyrac had tried to pull this back in high school, too, that time he'd collapsed at Combeferre's. They'd all known something was wrong -- even Combeferre and Enjolras' parents had known, even _Enjolras_ had known and he and Courfeyrac hadn't even been speaking at the time -- and the only response Courfeyrac would give then was the same. He was just tired. No big deal. Don't worry about me. It doesn't matter.

… ** _I_** don't matter.

Only this time… this time, Enjolras couldn't take it. He _wouldn't_. Maybe it was seeing Combeferre practically shredding himself with worry the day before. Maybe it was his talks with Rebus and Grantaire. Maybe it was the realization of exactly how much Courfeyrac was doing for all of them without anyone recognizing it, much less thanking him for it. Whatever it was, Enjolras couldn't watch Courfeyrac do this another time. He reached out and pulled Courfeyrac tightly to him and whispered fiercely into his ear, "If you think you're going to push me away this time, you've got another thing coming. I've seen you do this twice now and twice you've tried to convince me that 'it doesn't matter.' Well, it _does_ matter. You're my best friend and something's wrong and I want to help, but I can't help if I don't know what's wrong!"

Enjolras didn't know what he'd been hoping for when he called Courfeyrac out like that, but it certainly wasn't what he got. Courfeyrac started struggling in his embrace, pushing him away for the first time in Enjolras' entire memory of their friendship. Enjolras let go immediately and Courfeyrac pushed his chair back so that he was just out of reach, face pale with two spots of color high on his cheeks. He swallowed hard, wiped a hand across his face and said quietly, "There's nothing you can do. I can handle it. There's nothing wrong."

Meeting Enjolras' gaze with a sympathetic one of his own, Combeferre stepped in again. He didn't reach out, didn't even step closer to the table. He just said, "Those are contradictions. How can you handle something when there's nothing to handle?"

Courfeyrac opened his mouth, closed it again, stared at Combeferre for a moment before turning to stare back at Enjolras. With both of them watching him so intently, he started to hunch in on himself, and the way he started side-eying the door spoke clearly of how he must be starting to wish he was anywhere but here. And that was when this scene started to feel familiar. It felt like a cross-examination… like an interrogation. And if there was one thing he knew about Courfeyrac it was that he was far better with interrogation techniques than Enjolras. They weren't going to get anything out of him this way. Enjolras caught Combeferre's gaze and shook his head.

Courfeyrac wouldn't talk before he was ready. Enjolras _knew_ that, had known it before he started asking questions. Courfeyrac had always been like that. For all he seemed like an open book, he was really anything but. And he was even worse than Enjolras at asking for help when he needed it. And he clearly needed it. So, if Courfeyrac needed time to get his head around the idea that it was OK to ask for help, then Enjolras would make sure he got that time. He would get other people more involved with Les Amis to take some of the pressure off of Courfeyrac. He would convince Grantaire to save their arguments for after meetings so Courfeyrac wouldn't have to mediate. After last night's talk with Grantaire, he felt sure that Grantaire would agree if he asked. And he would just over all be a better friend. He would be there. He would pay attention. And when Courfeyrac was ready... he would be there then, too.

Reaching out to take Courfeyrac's hand in his, Enjolras said softly, "I'm sorry. Whatever it is or isn't, if you say you can handle it, we believe you. But if you change your mind… if you want help… we're both here, OK?" He gave Courfeyrac’s hand a gentle squeeze. "Come on. Finish your breakfast. When you're done, we can all curl up on the couch and have a movie marathon and not think about it for awhile."

Courfeyrac gave him a wan smile at that, but he did start eating. Enjolras worked his way out of his coat and settled back in his chair. It wasn't like Courfeyrac to be that defensive. Not at all. From the way Combeferre was hovering protectively around him, Enjolras could tell that he wasn't the only one Courfeyrac had spooked with that little display. It was clearly no longer a question of "if" something was wrong… it was now a question of figuring out what it was.

And they would. Of that, Enjolras had no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, go to my amazing beta [doeskin-pantaloons](http://doeskin-pantaloons.tumblr.com) for keeping me in line and finding all the funny sentences that just don't work and making me fix them. This story is the better for having passed through her hands and I'm very glad that we've managed to reconnect! ^_^
> 
> And feel free to come find me on tumblr at [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com) \-- I promise I don't bite! ^_~


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire had always known, deep down inside, that he didn't matter. And judging by how quick he always was to push aside his own pain in favor of everyone else's... Courfeyrac "knew" the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _March 28, 2015:_** I don't even have a good excuse. I've just been having major problems focusing on my longer works. I don't even really know why, apart from the fact that I've been massively stress-overloaded and writing anything of consequence has become really hard as a result. To those who have asked, and the few of you who are still with me from the beginning, yes, I absolutely intend to finish the story. I'm sorry it's taking so long. :(
> 
> Anyway, this chapter needs a bit of a specific warning, I think. There are some mentions of a past suicide attempt and some brief suicide ideation going on in this chapter. So, if that's triggering for you, consider yourself warned.
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/114900053232/follow-you-follow-me-chapter-18-grantaire-had).
> 
> * * *

Grantaire dropped down next to Jehan with a heavy sigh. He felt heavy. Every inch of him felt glued to the ground, these days. It had been far too long a winter. It was almost April and it had just snowed again this morning; nothing more than light flurries that hadn't even dusted the grass before melting, but _still_. Winter always left him feeling low. And he'd felt the effects of this one for far too long.

Without saying a word, Jehan wrapped an arm around Grantaire's shoulders and leaned over to press a kiss to his temple. Grantaire leaned into Jehan's warmth and reached over to steal a sip of whatever he was drinking in return.

That proved to be a mistake.

Sitting up and trying not to gag against the taste, Grantaire asked, "Do I even want to know what ungodly concoction I just sampled?"

Jehan laughed and said, "No. Probably not. But it serves you right for sampling drinks without asking." At Grantaire's sour look, Jehan patted him on the shoulder and said, "How about I just buy you your own to make up for it?"

Ten minutes later, Grantaire had a glass of whisky and Joly and Bossuet had arrived. Bossuet leaned in to clink his glass against Grantaire's, a soft smile on his face. "I know you probably don't care, but the rally was a huge success. We got more than enough signatures on the petitions to bring up the dining hall menu at the next SGA meeting."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "I _was_ at the rally, you know. I may not agree that there's much point to these frivolous attempts at social justice, but that doesn't mean I don't pay attention."

Joly had lifted his bottle of cider to clink it against Grantaire's, but he paused at those words, a light smirk settling over his features. "Ah. That you pay attention was never under debate, my friend. What was under debate was what you pay attention _to_." With that, Joly nodded his head towards the front of the Musain where Enjolras was deep in discussion with Combeferre and Feuilly.

To his own dismay, Grantaire could feel his cheeks heating at that gently teasing comment. He couldn't even deny it. He hadn't been at the rally to help -- not to help the cause, anyway. Honestly, Grantaire still wasn't even sure why he'd gone, at all. In situations like that, Enjolras was in his element. His social awkwardness seemed to mostly consign itself to one-on-one situations. In the midst of a nameless, faceless crowd, he was as comfortable as a cat on a pile of featherbeds. So, he shouldn't have needed Grantaire there, at all; shouldn't even have _wanted_ him there. But, all logic aside, Enjolras had asked him to be there. Grantaire still hadn't the faintest idea why, but he could no more deny a request like that from Enjolras than he could fly. So, he'd gone. And he'd watched. And he'd quietly celebrated every little moment that day that had put a smile on Enjolras' face. Because he really was so far gone for him that everything that made Enjolras happy made Grantaire happy, too.

Grantaire let out a soft groan and dropped his head back onto Jehan's shoulder. Jehan immediately began patting his back. "There, there. It's no secret how you feel about him. No need to be embarrassed, now."

Rolling an eye up just in time to catch the sour look on Jehan's face, Grantaire couldn't help but smile. It was also no secret how Jehan felt about Grantaire's fixation on Enjolras. All these months later and Jehan still looked like he'd like to drag Enjolras outside every time he so much as turned a frown in Grantaire's direction. And Jehan wasn't even the only offender, either. The last time Enjolras had said something thoughtless to Grantaire, Joly had volunteered to slip a laxative into his latte. And when Grantaire had choked on his drink and asked after the legality of that, Bossuet had just smirked and turned to Joly to comment about how constipated Enjolras had been looking lately and really, as a medical student, wasn't it his solemn responsibility to offer healing where it was needed? It had been a forceful reminder. Lighthearted and kind as Joly and Bossuet usually were, they were also downright dangerous when working in tandem... especially to protect a friend. Grantaire had paid for their drinks for the rest of the night.

That was just it, really. Grantaire had friends. He had _good_ friends. He had Jehan. He had Ellie. He had Joly. He had Bossuet. Musichetta, too. He had Eponine and Cosette. These days, he had Courfeyrac. He was veritably blessed with amazing friendships. He just didn't understand why. He didn't understand what they all saw in him, how he'd managed to deceive them into believing that there was someone worthwhile inside of him. What did he have to offer, after all, apart from a caustic tongue and an impressive capacity for alcohol?

But before Grantaire had a chance to say anything damning about his friends' taste in friends, Enjolras clinked a spoon against his glass and called the meeting to order. It was probably best that way. Settling himself more firmly against Jehan's supporting arm, Grantaire picked up his feet and plopped them into Bossuet's lap. Though Joly grimaced at the mud-encrusted boots now so near his clean khakis, he did reach out and pat Grantaire's leg before inching his chair further away. Grantaire just smiled and turned to listen to what Enjolras had to say.

And what Enjolras had to say was essentially more of what Bossuet had started saying before the meeting. The rally had been a success. They were going to gather their information and put together a presentation for the SGA and eventually for the school board. There was a lot of work on the horizon, blah, blah, blah. Grantaire ignored most of it. It had nothing to do with him. The only task he was even vaguely suited for was one related to design... but after one disastrous attempt at persuading Grantaire to design posters for the rally, Enjolras had given up on trying to enlist his assistance. That argument hadn't been pretty, but Grantaire hadn't lifted a brush since that incident in the studio and he was in no rush to do it for Enjolras. Professor Mercado had attempted to contact him through Jehan multiple times, but Grantaire kept putting him off, unable to face the reality of having disappointed yet another person who'd believed in him. People really should stop doing that.

So, instead of focusing on Enjolras' doling out of tasks, Grantaire did a little people watching, instead. Bossuet was focused on Enjolras, volunteering for whatever job that came up that suited his talents. Enjolras had won him over early and he believed as hard as Enjolras did in the possibility of a better world. Bossuet had enough optimism for he and Grantaire combined. 

Joly wasn't usually keen to volunteer for extra work, given the workload he already had for school, but when Combeferre stepped up to volunteer to design alternate meal plans, Joly put his hand up, as well. His not-always-so-academic crush on Combeferre was usually the subject of much good-humored teasing from Bossuet and Musichetta, but Joly bore it well. He always did.

As for the Combeferre... his affections were fixed firmly in one place. And that was another story, entirely. Grantaire snorted. For someone so astute in reading other people's emotional states and romantic entanglements, Courfeyrac was downright abysmal at understanding his own. Even now, Combeferre was turning a soft smile on him that was more appropriate to a romantic hideaway than it was to a crowded bar, but instead of taking notice, Courfeyrac was focused on Enjolras... and becoming more agitated by the second as Enjolras passed him over for yet another job in favor of someone else.

Oh no.

Grantaire and Enjolras had discussed this -- or at least Grantaire _thought_ they had -- that there was a fine line between delegating responsibilities more broadly in an attempt to cut a friend some slack and wrapping said friend in so much emotional cotton that they could barely breathe. After Courfeyrac's collapse around Valentine's day, Enjolras had been all for demoting Courfeyrac out of his Vice Presidency in the group in an effort to keep him from overworking himself, again. It had taken all of Grantaire's persuasive ability to convince Enjolras that that would do Courfeyrac more harm than good. Courfeyrac thrived on being useful. Being dismissed like that would have hurt him far more than any extra rest could have helped. Grantaire had won that argument, but only barely, and when he didn't keep a close eye on Enjolras in moments like this, Enjolras would push the issue, giving Courfeyrac as little to do as he could get away with.

Grantaire swung his feet off of Bossuet's lap and sat up, trying to catch Enjolras' eye. They'd nearly perfected this warning system over the past few weeks, but it only worked if Enjolras was watching him. And Grantaire couldn't do much more to get his attention without causing a spectacle -- something he'd promised Enjolras at the start of this arrangement that he would no longer do, again, in an effort to spare Courfeyrac any extra work. But what good was it to spare him in one instance when the other had the potential to hurt him just as badly?

Courfeyrac put his hand up again the next time that Enjolras asked for volunteers for a job, and, once more, Enjolras looked around for anyone else but him to give it to. Only this time, when Courfeyrac's face fell, it didn't get back up again. And the minute that Enjolras' and Combeferre's attention was drawn to something else, Courfeyrac did something Grantaire had never thought he'd see him do -- he pushed his chair back, then quickly and quietly fled the room. Enjolras was so wrapped up in debating his current point that he didn't even notice he'd left. Cursing softly under his breath, Grantaire put his drink down, unfinished, and went after him.

* * *

Courfeyrac hadn't made it very far. Grantaire caught up to him just outside the Musain. He'd come to rest against the corner of the building at the opening to the side alley, and, if Grantaire was any judge, if it weren't for the wall supporting him, he'd have been on the ground. He was bent slightly at the waist, and he had one fist pressed to his stomach. He was breathing so harshly that Grantaire could hear him all the way from the door.

Grantaire approached slowly, one hand outstretched -- though to do what, he didn't know. This was exactly what he'd warned Enjolras about. This was exactly the circumstance that Grantaire had been trying to avoid. And now... Grantaire didn't even know why he'd run out after him. Sure, Grantaire and Courfeyrac were friends, but they weren't the kind of friends who unburdened their problems to each other. Not on this magnitude, anyway. Not for the first time, Grantaire cursed the fact that he hadn't found a way to tell Courfeyrac that he was Rebus; Courfeyrac would have talked to Rebus. Grantaire had no idea if Courfeyrac would talk to him.

When Grantaire got close enough, he could see that Courfeyrac's shoulders were shaking, too. Damn and double damn. Grantaire stepped closer and let his outstretched hand come to rest on one of those shaking shoulders... and Courfeyrac's entire body tensed at that contact. He straightened, raised one hand to wipe briefly at his eyes, and then turned around so quickly that it made Grantaire a little dizzy. A wide smile was in place on Courfeyrac's lips, but the bloodshot, puffy look of his eyes gave easy lie to it.

Keeping his hand firmly in place on Courfeyrac's shoulder, Grantaire said softly, "He's just trying to help, you know."

Grantaire waited then, watched as the decision played itself out in the expressions of Courfeyrac's face. Courfeyrac was good at misdirection. Very good. It was how he'd worked himself into such a state to begin with -- he was so good at fooling his friends into thinking that he was OK, that he could never seem to bring himself to tell them that it wasn't true. Enjolras and Combeferre knew him best, and even _they_ hadn't been able to see through it. Grantaire was only seeing through it now because, in some ways, he and Courfeyrac were kindred spirits. 

Grantaire had always known, deep down inside, that he didn't matter. And judging by how quick he always was to push aside his own pain in favor of everyone else's... Courfeyrac "knew" the same thing.

Sighing, Grantaire said, "You don't have to pretend for me. I know he hurt you. I get it. Sometimes, he's a jerk."

There was a crack then, an indrawn breath that was shakier than it should have been, but before Courfeyrac could say anything, the door to the Musain slammed open, and Combeferre's frantic voice gave away that they were no longer alone. Then, before Grantaire could even register the importance of that, Courfeyrac grabbed him and dragged him down the side alley. Heart racing, Grantaire nonetheless forced himself to stillness, wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac's shaking frame even as Courfeyrac leaned into him, one hand covering Grantaire's mouth. Grantaire could take a hint.

Combeferre ran past the mouth of the alley, still calling Courfeyrac's name. Moments later, Enjolras ran past, too, alternately yelling for Courfeyrac, Combeferre, _and_ Grantaire. Grantaire thought about calling out to him in return, but the choked off whimper that Courfeyrac let out nipped that idea before it had fully formed. Eventually, Enjolras and Combeferre stopped their searching, coming to a halt near the mouth of the alley. They proceeded to engage in a heated discussion over whose fault this was, what they should have done to prevent it, and whose job it had been to keep an eye on Courfeyrac. The argument ended with the two going off in separate directions, grudgingly agreeing to call the other if either of them heard from Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac's only reaction to the entire thing had been to shake harder.

...and if Grantaire's shoulder was suspiciously wet when Courfeyrac finally released him, he was kind enough not to call Courfeyrac out on it.

Once the coast was clear, Courfeyrac took two hesitant steps towards the street, then stopped, letting himself fall to rest against the unforgiving brick of the alley wall, one hand pressed to his stomach, again. Grantaire stepped closer, this time careful not to touch uninvited. He said simply, "What can I do to help?"

Courfeyrac caught his breath on a sob, then spent the next few minutes getting his breathing back under control. Finally, in a voice so small it nearly broke Grantaire's heart, he said, "I want--." He swallowed hard, added, "I want Marius," and then stopped, again.

"OK. OK, I get it." Reaching out, at last, Grantaire wrapped an arm around Courfeyrac's shoulders and turned him around to walk towards the back of the alley and the parking lot. "I can do that." He didn't offer anything more than that. He couldn't say that it was going to be OK. He didn't know that. He couldn't tell Courfeyrac to calm down. Of all people, Grantaire knew how absolutely unhelpful that was. All he could do was what Courfeyrac had asked and bring him home to Marius.

...and hope like mad that Pontmercy would know what to do with him when Grantaire got Courfeyrac home.

* * *

When Grantaire got Courfeyrac home, still glazed and shaking, Marius _did_ know what to do. He was waiting for them, a warm blanket that smelled like it had just come out of the dryer in hand. He wasted no time divesting Courfeyrac of his jacket and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, instead. He then led him over to the couch and motioned to the person who'd been hovering nearby -- Cosette, whom Grantaire hadn't even noticed until then -- to come closer. It wasn't until Cosette pressed a mug into Courfeyrac's hands that Grantaire thought to object. The way Courfeyrac was shaking, putting a mug of hot liquid in his hands didn't seem like such a great idea. 

...but, it seemed they had that thought out, too.

The minute that Courfeyrac had the mug in his hands, Marius sat down across from him and wrapped his own hands around them, pressing them to the sides of the mug and helping to keep it steady. Cosette sat down on Courfeyrac's left side, pressing herself close to him.

Grantaire had the stunned thought that they'd done this before.

Not only had they done this before... they'd done it often.

Biting off a curse, Grantaire forced himself to consider exactly how often this had to happen and how bad things must be that Marius not only had a system worked out to handle it, but had learned how to account for Cosette's presence, too. Damn Enjolras. _Damn_ him.

Stepping closer, Grantaire quietly asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

Marius was so focused on coaxing Courfeyrac to take a drink that he either didn't hear the question or didn't think it merited an answer. Cosette, on the other hand, took pity on Grantaire and motioned him to sit down on Courfeyrac's other side. When she spoke, her voice was low and even, as soothing and unobtrusive as she could make it. "The warmth will help. If he wants to talk, we'll listen. If not... just being here will help."

Taking the hint to respond in kind, Grantaire said, "Is there anything I can say? I... I know it may not help to hear it, but Enjolras--"

At the mention of that name, Courfeyrac let out a low moan and dropped his head forward to bury it in the crook of Marius' neck, nearly spilling the hot chocolate over both of them. Marius hastily put the mug aside in favor of wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac's tense frame. He then turned a fiercer and more sour look on Grantaire than Grantaire had thought he had in him and hissed out, "Well, I can tell you one thing that will most certainly _not_ help. That name. Any mention of that name. So, if you can't keep it discreetly behind your teeth for the duration, then I suggest you leave."

Grantaire firmly buttoned his lip over any response he could have made. He didn't have the answers here. Marius and Cosette did. Grantaire could follow their lead, especially once he recognized that he knew this particular pattern of routine, too.

...he and Jehan had one just like it. They hadn't had to use it much recently, but they had it.

After another ten minutes had passed, Marius was finally able to coax Courfeyrac up off of his shoulder and off of the couch. As they shuffled off down the hall, Grantaire turned to Cosette, his questions practically burning in his throat from having forced them down so long. Cosette sighed, but motioned him on.

Good. Answers, at last.

* * *

"What happened?"

Courfeyrac jerked at that soft question, flinched away from the voice that had asked it. Marius sighed. "OK. Never mind. You don't have to--"

"Enjolras." Courfeyrac's breath caught on the word, but he plowed on. And once he got started, the words came faster and faster, like some festering wound had finally been lanced. "Grantaire said that he thinks he's helping. And I _know_ that. I _know_ that he thinks he's helping, but I feel so useless. It feels like he doesn't trust me anymore. This was the one thing -- the _one thing_ , Marius -- that I could still do for him, the one thing that keeps us close, and _he doesn't want me to be any part of it, anymore._ "

Bracing himself on the bathroom sink, Courfeyrac raised haunted eyes to meet Marius' own and said, "I'm going to lose him. I'm going to lose what little I have left of him, and there's nothing I can do about it. Marius... what do I do?"

Marius pulled Courfeyrac back to him, wrapping his arms firmly around him and stroking his back. Personally, Marius was beginning to understand Jehan's attitude more and more. Bearing such close witness to the aftermath every time Enjolras had done something so unthinkingly cruel had left him feeling less than charitable. It didn't even matter that Enjolras had been trying to be kind; in some ways, that almost made it worse.

Courfeyrac didn't deserve to be so ill-used. He deserved so much better than this. Marius had always thought so, but it had become more apparent than ever since Courfeyrac had returned from the Christmas holidays. There had been a brittleness, a fragility, to him since he'd returned from New York, having cut his visit short by nearly a week. Marius had thought he recognized that particular brand of pain, but, at the time, he'd been too uncertain himself to say anything. So, he'd kept silent, and he'd watched.

When Courfeyrac started drawing up careful budgets for the shopping, cutting out everything but staple foods, Marius had noticed.

When Courfeyrac stopped going out, stopped drinking, and started walking instead of driving any time it was barely warm enough to do so, Marius had noticed.

When Courfeyrac took on a work-study job at the law library under the guise of beefing up a resume that, to Marius' knowledge, needed no beefing up, Marius had noticed.

And when Courfeyrac started spending every free hour that he had helping out Eponine and Musichetta -- and more than that, had started using his tips to pay for his share of the groceries -- well... Marius had noticed that, too.

So, when Marius found Courfeyrac sitting at the kitchen table, one night, holding their rent check in shaking hands while staring forlornly at a checkbook that wouldn't balance... that was the final straw. Marius had all the proof he needed to know what he was dealing with, and it was time to act. Marius had retreated to his bedroom and carefully composed an e-mail that he had once sworn he would never send. And in the morning, when he'd received in answer as warm of a response as the old man was capable of, Marius had put on his threadbare coat and gone to see his grandfather.

By that afternoon, Marius was reinstated in his grandfather's good graces, he had a new coat and the start of a new wardrobe -- over his own protests -- and he had agreed to take a stipend from his grandfather which was far over and above the cost of the rent on Courfeyrac's apartment... which was what Marius had been after to begin with. 

Marius had then arranged to meet with their landlord, and gotten the man to agree to quietly tear up the checks that Courfeyrac gave him for rent in favor of Marius paying for it himself. Of course, Courfeyrac had caught him out at it after the first month, and he'd had more than a few words to say over Marius compromising his principles just for money, but Marius had stood his ground. He'd argued that Courfeyrac had paid Marius' share of the rent the entire first year they had lived together and that, to Marius' eyes, meant that he now owed Courfeyrac a year's worth of paying _his_ half of the rent in return. And in the name of Marius' pride -- and because Courfeyrac was astute enough to see through him and understand why he was really doing this -- Courfeyrac had backed down and let him do it.

But to watch Courfeyrac struggling so hard in spite of Marius doing everything he could to help, had nearly broken his heart. Courfeyrac gave so much of himself to others, but it seemed to Marius that few people, if any, ever gave themselves so freely to him in return. And the real killer was that Courfeyrac professed not to mind it -- except in times like these when he couldn't hold up the pretense any longer.

Quietly, calmly, Marius reached past Courfeyrac to open the medicine cabinet. He pulled out a small orange vial of pills and held it out to him. There weren't many left -- maybe six -- and Courfeyrac been hoarding them for emergencies. As far as Marius was concerned... today qualified.

Courfeyrac, of course, objected. His voice rough with emotion, he said, "No. I don't have enough left. I have to save them."

"For days like today, Courfeyrac."

"No."

Marius sighed. "The only reason I agreed not to look into a way to get you more was because you promised that you'd at least take them when you have a bad day. This is a bad day. You need it."

"No."

"Yes."

" _No._ "

" _Yes._ "

Finally, Courfeyrac yelled back, "No. I won't. Not when they don't even help, anyway!" At that point, he pushed hard at the hand that Marius had outstretched and sent the vial flying into the hallway to crash against the opposite wall... six inches from Cosette's head.

Courfeyrac paled and Marius lunged for the bottle... but it was too late. Grantaire had already reached past Cosette to pluck it off the floor and read the label. 

Sertraline.

The look he turned on Courfeyrac then was full of painful understanding. Softly, he said, "No. No, I don't imagine it's helping at all. Not if you're only taking it once every blue moon."

Marius made another grab for the vial, but it was half-hearted, at best. The damage had already been done. Instead, he shot back, "Well, it's better than nothing!"

Grantaire offered the vial back and shook his head. "Actually... it probably isn't. That stuff isn't meant to be taken on an 'as needed' basis. Who knows what it's really doing?" Turning back towards Courfeyrac, he said, "Do I have to ask how you even got your hands on it to begin with?"

Courfeyrac grabbed for the bottle and where he'd been frighteningly pale before, he was now dangerously flushed. He spat back, "How do you think I got my hands on it?"

Grantaire held his hands up and shook his head. "Hey, look. I'm not trying to attack you. I'm trying to help. I just want to know if--"

"You want to know if I got them from a licensed professional or a street dealer. I get it, R." Quietly, as though every word were being dragged form him under pain of torture, Courfeyrac admitted. "I've been seeing a psychologist since I was fifteen. I was officially diagnosed when I was sixteen. I've been on these," he shook the bottle, "since I was twenty." He let out a bitter laugh. "Only medical insurance is one of many things I no longer have, and even the generics are fucking expensive without it. Is that what you wanted to know?"

Courfeyrac deflated then, all the fight going out of him at once. Marius reached out a hand to steady him. Once he had his feet firmly back under him, Marius took the bottle of pills and shook one out before Courfeyrac could regain the energy to argue, again. Marius pressed it and a glass of water on him, and this time Courfeyrac took them without complaint.

Grantaire leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest, and began to laugh. Marius turned back to him, a scowl firmly in place, but Grantaire shook his head. "I'm not laughing at you. Just... the coincidence." Waving a hand in the air, Grantaire elaborated, ticking off points on his fingers as he went, "Jehan was living so deeply in a pretend world that his parents shipped him off to live with his grandparents until he graduated, I tried to kill myself, and now you. Apparently sixteen was just a banner year for everyone."

Marius turned back to see Courfeyrac's response... and was surprised to see him laughing softly to himself. When Courfeyrac finally picked his head up again, he was wearing the first smile that Marius had seen on him all night. Courfeyrac nodded at the bottle, then raised an eyebrow at Grantaire. "OK. So, what's your poison, then?"

Grantaire snorted out another laugh. "You haven't figured it out, yet?" At Courfeyrac's raised eyebrow, Grantaire said, "Alcohol, my friend. After my encounter with a few bottleful's of that stuff when I was sixteen, I haven't trusted myself around it. Self-medicating is safer."

As Courfeyrac's eyes widened, Grantaire merely shrugged. "It works well enough, except when it doesn't. And when it doesn't... well. That's why Jehan sticks to me like glue. It's a little codependent and a lot unhealthy... but it's better than the alternative."

At that, the smile fell from Courfeyrac's face and his breath caught. Marius immediately dropped a hand to his shoulder and gave it a soft pat. When Courfeyrac looked back up to meet his gaze, there was a whole new world of pain in his eyes. Turning that look on Grantaire, he said quietly, "...is it, really? Are you sure?"

Marius' hand closed convulsively on Courfeyrac's shoulder, then, scared beyond measure by what those soft words implied. Seeing that, Cosette reached past Grantaire to squeeze Marius' free hand. Grantaire took that opportunity to push past Marius into the bathroom. Taking Courfeyrac's hands in his, he gave them a gentle squeeze and said, "Any. Day. Of the week." Leaning in, he placed a soft kiss on Courfeyrac's forehead and added, "But the fact that it's on your mind enough to be asking me that question means that I need to find a way to get you a steady supply of refills. And if I'm going to do that, then you _really_ need to be talking to your guy, again. This stuff is serious shit when you take it unmonitored."

Ducking his head, Courfeyrac said, "I'll call her tomorrow. See if I can work something out. Sliding scale, or something. I don't know."

At that, Marius found his voice again. "You will call her _tonight_. Right now. And fuck the cost." Both Grantaire and Courfeyrac jerked at the use of profanity coming from him, but Marius barreled on. "Whatever it costs, I'll cover it." Pulling his hands from Cosette's, Marius knelt down next to Grantaire and pressed as close to Courfeyrac as he could get. "I'm not losing you. Do you hear me? You're the only family I have. I'm _not_ losing you."

Grantaire backed off then, and, in a mirror of their posture from earlier in the evening, Courfeyrac leaned down to envelop Marius in his arms. Courfeyrac didn't say anything, but the soft smile and reassuring kisses that he pressed into Marius' hair told Marius clearer than words could that he wasn't going anywhere. And that was all the reassurance that Marius needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come find me at [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Enjolras moved, Grantaire got up from the couch and sat on the coffee table. By the time Enjolras got himself into a sitting position, words were coming more easily, but his voice, when it emerged, was rough, like he’d smoked a few too many cigarettes. “You came.”
> 
> Another soft smile. “What are friends for?”
> 
> “Is that what we are?”
> 
> Grantaire’s smile fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _March 26, 2016:_** It’s been TWO DAYS SHY OF A YEAR. *hangs head in shame* But I’m about to have a super, super awful day, and for some reason that gave me the impetus I needed to finally finish this chapter. I’m so, so sorry for the wait. But I appreciate the patience of every single one of you who’s still following this story.
> 
> ...no pun intended. ^_~
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/141719577072/follow-you-follow-me-103393-words-chapter-19).
> 
> * * *

When Grantaire finally pulled into his driveway, he wanted nothing more than to get upstairs, throw himself down on his bed, and burrow under the blankets. Forget showering, forget even undressing, he just wanted to sleep. He wanted to shut the world out and pretend it didn’t exist. He’d never have admitted it while at Courfeyrac and Marius’ apartment, but brushing so intimately up against Courfeyrac’s depression had stirred his own with a vengeance. Depression hysteria, Jehan had called it, once—the phenomenon that when Grantaire encountered people who were depressed, it made him depressed. Like a transference. It was why he avoided sad movies. It was why he avoided any kind of support groups; they did him more harm than good. The answer was usually to curl up with Jehan and watch some ridiculous movie to distract himself until it passed. So, as he trudged up the stairs, Grantaire resolved to call Jehan first thing when he got to his apartment. He knew from experience that he’d thank himself for it later.

Too bad Fate had other plans. 

Someone was lying in wait for him in the alcove across from his apartment door. Grantaire closed his eyes and reached up to rub at his forehead. He really didn’t need this right now. He really, really didn’t. Still, he turned to his unexpected visitor and dredged up a smile. “So… are we doing this in the hall or did you want to come inside?”

Combeferre winced but said, “Inside would be fine. I’m sorry to barge in on you unannounced.”

“Of course, you are.” Grantaire got the door open, waved Combeferre in, then followed and turned to lock the door. “You and Enjolras are cut from the same cloth. As long as it’s convenient for you, you don’t think about whether or not it’s convenient for anyone else.”

Combeferre frowned. “That’s not fair, and you know it.”

Grantaire slid the bolt home then turned to face Combeferre. “Well you know what? I’m not in the mood to be fair tonight. I’m in the mood to kick someone’s ass tonight. I was planning on it being my own, but you’re looking like a better and better target with each passing minute.”

Combeferre held his hands up in a defensive posture and said, “I’m not here to cause you any grief. I just—“ He slumped. “I know you followed Courfeyrac when he left. I just want to know if he’s OK. That’s all. Then I’ll go.”

“You want to know if he’s OK?” Grantaire blinked, taken aback. “That’s all you want? You don’t want to know where he is? You don’t want to know what happened?” A scowl marched across Grantaire’s face to pull his lips downward. “How do you even know that’s where I was?”

Combeferre leaned back against the wall, what little strength had been holding him up seeming to dissipate all at once. “You followed him, so I just… I assumed he let you catch him.” 

Combeferre took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squinching firmly shut. If Grantaire hadn’t been certain that Combeferre didn’t do that sort of thing, he’d have sworn he was about to cry. But Combeferre _didn’t_ do that sort of thing. He was the one who kept his shit together. He kept everyone’s shit together. That was just what he did. And tonight was no exception; by the time Combeferre replaced his glasses, he had whatever emotion was riding him back under control.

“You’re not wrong. I do want to know all of those things, but for now, I’ll be happy just to know that he’s all right.” Combeferre looked up to meet Grantaire’s eyes. “Can you tell me that much?”

Grantaire looked away and shrugged. “I guess that depends on your definition of all right.” When Combeferre moved as though to speak, Grantaire shook his head, then moved past him into the living room to hang up his coat. “He’s home and he’s safe. Marius is looking out for him.” Turning back to Combeferre, Grantaire shrugged once more. “But I’d say that saying he’s ‘all right’ is stretching the truth a bit. He’s not ‘all right.’ He hasn’t been for some time. Tonight was just the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. And I think you knew that already when you came over here.“

Combeferre ran his hands over his face, sliding them under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, again. It was several minutes before he even attempted to speak. When he did, his voice was harsh in a way that Grantaire had never heard it be before. “He’s exhausted. He’s in pain. I know that. But you don’t know Courfeyrac the way I do. When he’s hurting, he pushes people away. It’s just what he does. And he’ll deny it until Doomsday if you try to confront him about it. I just have to trust that when he’s ready, he’ll talk to me. I’m willing to wait for as long as it takes for that to happen.” He looked up. “That’s why I didn’t ask for details. I don’t want them from you. I want them from him.”

Grantaire met Combeferre’s gaze for a moment, then snorted out a soft laugh. “Jesus fucking Christ, what a pair we make.” When Combeferre merely raised an eyebrow in response, Grantaire shook his head. “You’ve got it as bad for him as I do for Enjolras. And I’d have bet a pretty chunk of change before tonight that you had no idea… but you do, don’t you? You’re head over heels for him and you know it. How long has that been going on?”

As Grantaire spoke, Combeferre stiffened, back straightening, hands clenching, and lips drawing down into a tight frown. He was the very picture of affronted dignity, and he proved it a moment later when he said:

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“I’m sure you do,” Grantaire retorted. “Look, Enjolras wouldn’t see it unless you whacked him over the head with it and I’m guessing that if Courfeyrac has missed it, it’s because he’s so wrapped up in his own shit that he’s just not looking, but I am looking and I know what I’m seeing.” Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against his armchair. “Unrequited love is kind of a specialty of mine these days.”

Grantaire took a perverse amount of glee in watching Combeferre struggle to come up with an answer. Eventually, Combeferre’s whole body relaxed and he slumped against the wall. Quietly he admitted, “My own feelings are beside the point. You see… I don’t think Courfeyrac is as unaware of them as you think he is. I think he simply just doesn’t return them.”

Grantaire twitched. “You must be joking.”

A soft sigh. “Sadly, I’m not. I’m not nearly as good at hiding how I feel as you seem to think I am, and Courfeyrac’s emotional intelligence is off the charts. He knows. He has to. And he’s done nothing—said nothing—about it in all the years I’ve known him. I know he once had feelings for Enjolras. I think he may still.” Combeferre turned away and took a few steps further into Grantaire’s apartment, wringing his hands so harshly together that it made Grantaire fear for the safety of his fingers. “It hasn’t ever gone well when I get in the middle of that. The only time Courfeyrac was ever truly angry at the both of us was when I did.” His hands clenched even harder on each other than they had before. “I don’t think I could bear it if he were ever that angry at me, again.”

Grantaire watched Combeferre pace, still wringing his hands, for a minute more before responding. “We are both so unbelievably fucked.” He then made a decision which should have been a hard one, but ended up being nothing of the kind. “I was going to invite Jehan over to watch some ridiculous movies and eat popcorn and maybe get drunk.” When Combeferre finally stopped wringing his hands long enough to look up, eyes wide and startled, Grantaire smiled, “How do you feel about Dogma?”

* * *

Two hours later, Grantaire had been forced to reevaluate his opinion of Combeferre at least three times over. First of all, not only did he like Dogma, it turned out that he had the entire movie practically memorized, along with most of the rest of Jay and Silent Bob’s repertoire. He also had a tendency to spout random knowledge about the movie whenever the mood struck; he was like a walking, talking encyclopedia that you couldn’t turn off once you’d turned it on… and a little alcohol was apparently all it took to flip that switch.

Jehan kept shooting amused and startled glances at Grantaire over Combeferre’s head. Combeferre had slumped down among the couch cushions and was currently singing along with Serendipity’s strip number under his breath—surprisingly on-key for someone that drunk. After another few minutes of this, Jehan finally got up and moved to the other side of the couch to settle in beside Grantaire. Bumping Grantaire’s shoulder with a soft smile, he said, “You OK?”

Grantaire let out a soft snort, taking a long pull from his beer bottle before answering. “If you’d asked me that three hours ago, the answer would have been a resounding ‘no’. But, now?” Turning to Jehan, he smiled. “I’m OK.” When Jehan’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline as his only response, Grantaire laughed. “I actually mean that. I don’t know. Seeing this,“ Grantaire tipped his head in Combeferre’s direction, “Has somehow made me feel better about this whole thing.”

When Jehan continued to look skeptical, Grantaire pushed himself upright and put his beer bottle down on one of the coasters he’d left out on the table. “Look, it’s like this: I’m starting to think I’ve been going about this all wrong. Enjolras… I like him. I like him a lot. And somehow, I’ve convinced him to like me, too—part of me, anyway. But all this time, I’ve been going after him like he’s an adult who knows what he wants.” Smirking softly, he bumped Jehan’s shoulder again. “Knowing you has spoiled me that way, I think.”

Jehan bumped Grantaire back so hard in return that he nearly fell over Combeferre… who didn’t even notice. Combeferre was staring at the screen, a pillow clutched to his chest, alternately mumbling along with the characters and softly sniffling. Grantaire rolled his eyes and pushed himself back upright. “I’m serious, though. I know it hasn’t always been this easy for you, but when it comes to relationships, you know what you want and you go after it. Whether it’s a quick fuck or something more, it doesn’t matter. You’re honest about it and you don’t play around. Most people aren’t like that. Most people don’t know enough to be like that.”

“That may be true,” Jehan conceded. “But I don’t see how that helps you.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Because I never realized it before, but Enjolras doesn’t know how all of this works. It’s easy for him to be in love with Rebus because Rebus is an abstract concept. It’s like all of his passion for social justice—as long as it’s abstract, rooted in ideals and not real people, he’s fine. The minute it becomes about people—messy, emotional, imperfect people—he gets flustered and doesn’t know what to do. He still expects the lightning bolt and the happily ever after. Enjolras expects love to be perfect and _that’s_ why Rebus is so attractive to him. Rebus can be perfect. He’s not real, so he has that luxury. I don’t. I’m not perfect. I’m so far from fucking perfect, we don’t even inhabit the same galaxy. So, Enjolras can’t love me. Not now. Not like he is. It’s like… he has to grow up first. Does that even make sense?”

“You’re not wrong.”

Having expected that answer to come from in front of him, when it came from behind him, Grantaire nearly jumped off the couch in surprise. Then, a moment later when he realized what else Combeferre had just overheard, his face drained of color and he almost jumped off the couch for a far different reason. Turning to face Combeferre, he swallowed hard and said, “You heard all that?”

Combeferre, still slumped over on his side and clutching the pillow, solemnly nodded. “I’m drunk, not deaf.” He paused for a minute, eyes wide, before adding, “I’m _very_ drunk. And I’m not sure that what you just said would have made sense if I’d been sober, but right now it seems perfectly clear. In a lot of ways, Enjolras hasn’t grown up yet. He hasn’t had to. He’s had me and Courfeyrac to protect him from the consequences until now.” He pushed himself upright and Grantaire had to scramble to catch him once he got there, as he nearly overbalanced. Combeferre’s eyes crossed for a moment, completely unfocused, before refocusing on Grantaire and Jehan. He said, “And I already knew about you. Rebus. Courfeyrac figured it out a while ago and he told me.” His voice dropped into a whisper with his next words. “Courfeyrac tells me everything. Except when he doesn’t. Not when it matters. Not when he’s hurting and I could help. Why does he do that?”

Combeferre’s head dropped slowly onto Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire reached out to run a hand down his back. “I don’t know, Combeferre. I just don’t know.”

A soft chime interrupted Grantaire before he could say anything more. He and Jehan both did a quick check of their own pockets and found that it wasn’t either of their cell phones which had gone off. That meant it must have been Combeferre’s. Combeferre, unfortunately, had finally succumbed to either the stress of the night or the alcohol and was snoring softly on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire made a complicated set of gestures that fortunately didn’t dislodge Combeferre but did get across to Jehan that he wanted Jehan to check Combeferre’s pockets for his phone.

Five minutes of highly uncomfortable fumbling later, Combeferre was tucked in on the couch and Grantaire and Jehan were in the kitchen, checking the message ID of that text, though neither of them read it.

Enjolras.

Jehan let out a soft groan while Grantaire pulled his own phone out of his pocket. “I just want to shoot him a text so he knows Combeferre is here. He’s worried enough over one of his best friends. He shouldn’t have to worry about both.”

Barely ten seconds after sending that text, however, Grantaire’s phone was ringing. After a startled moment in which he nearly dropped it, Grantaire managed to swipe the call open and get the phone to his ear. “Enjolras, what the fuck? What part of, ‘He’s passed out drunk on my couch and I’d just as soon leave him there to sleep it off’ didn’t make sense to you?”

Moments later, eyes wide, Grantaire turned to Jehan and, one hand over the receiver asked, “Would you kill me if I left you to watch him while I went out for a minute?”

Jehan’s scowl was answer enough, but he threw his hands in the air and went back into the living room to park himself on the side of the couch near Combeferre’s head. Grantaire would have laughed at the way Combeferre immediately oozed up to rest his head in Jehan’s lap, but between Jehan’s irate scowl and Enjolras’ still panicked voice in his ear, he didn’t feel much like laughing. Grateful, now, that he hadn’t had more than half of that first beer, Grantaire shrugged into his coat and grabbed his car keys. Enjolras needed him. And fuck everything, but, even with tonight’s disaster still fresh in his mind, he just couldn’t stay away.

* * *

Enjolras paced the confines of his apartment, hands clenched tightly in his hair and teeth buried just as firmly in his bottom lip. Those points of pain kept him grounded, kept him from drowning in pain of another sort. He’d hurt Courfeyrac. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t want to, but he’d done it. And almost worse than that, he’d upset Combeferre. Combeferre didn’t _get_ upset. Not with him. Except that clearly wasn’t true. This was the second time Combeferre had ever gotten upset with him… and it was the second time he’d done so on Courfeyrac’s behalf.

Enjolras threw himself down on the couch, planting face first in the cushions. How could he have been so _stupid_? It took a special breed of idiot to drive away both of one’s best friends, especially when one was trying to do the right thing for a change. And he had been! He’d been trying to do the right thing, trying to protect Courfeyrac from himself, trying to give him a break. How had that backfired so spectacularly? How?

When he’d finally gotten home, Enjolras had gone straight to Skype, hoping against hope that Rebus would be online. He needed to talk to someone. He needed help. He needed to know how he’d screwed up so monumentally so he could avoid doing it again. And Rebus gave the best advice of everyone Enjolras knew. If anyone could help him sort through this, it would be Rebus.

But Rebus wasn’t online.

Enjolras had sent a message anyway, hoping that Rebus was there and just hiding behind an invisible status, but there had been no response to his first message. Or his second. Or his third or fourth or fifth. After he sent the sixth message with no response forthcoming, Enjolras gave up. No Rebus. Fine. But he needed someone. Only… if he couldn’t have Rebus and he couldn’t have Courfeyrac and he couldn’t have Combeferre, there weren’t many other people he trusted to help him with something like this.

…except maybe Grantaire.

Grantaire had at least proven that he could keep his mouth shut. He’d even proven that he was reliable… to a point. He’d been doing his best to help Enjolras with his social anxiety issues, anyway, and that had to count for something, didn’t it?

No. Enjolras couldn’t ask that of him. He just couldn’t. So, he’d texted Combeferre, hoping against hope that Combeferre would forgive him long enough to respond. Only there’d been no response. Not from Combeferre.

The response had come from Grantaire, instead.

~ _He’s passed out drunk on my couch and I’d just as soon leave him there to sleep it off._ ~

What little control Enjolras had had over his rising panic evaporated with those words. Combeferre had been upset enough with Enjolras to _get drunk_. Combeferre didn’t do that. And worse, Combeferre was with Grantaire. And if he was with Grantaire, then he wasn’t with Courfeyrac. If _he_ wasn’t with Courfeyrac, who was? Was Courfeyrac OK? Where was he? Shaking hands fumbled with the keypad badly enough that Enjolras gave up before he’d barely started and just hit the call button. And he was so relieved when his call was answered instead of going to voicemail, was so relieved to hear a friendly voice, albeit a hushed one, on the other end of the line that he’d blurted the whole mess out without giving any thought to how it would sound.

Based on how quickly Grantaire decided that he needed to come over, it must have sounded pretty bad.

That had been ten minutes ago and Enjolras was no closer to being able to calm down than he’d been when he made that call. Combeferre was passed out drunk and not speaking to him. Courfeyrac was alone, upset, and fuck only knew where, and also not speaking to him. Grantaire was on his way, but even if he’d left immediately after hanging up and come straight over, it would still be another five to ten minutes before he arrived. And now that he’d settled in one spot, Enjolras was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. He’d alienated the only real friends he had. The enormity of that wasn’t escaping him. And for once, he had absolutely no idea what to do.

That was how Grantaire found him seven minutes later, his face firmly pressed into the cushions of the couch, his arms covering his head, and his legs lying askew half on the ground where they’d fallen when he hit the couch. It was another few minutes after that before Enjolras was even capable of understanding registering Grantaire’s actions—the dip in the couch at his hip that meant Grantaire was sitting beside him, the slowly chafing warmth low on his back that meant Grantaire was rubbing little circles there, and the low murmur of sound that meant Grantaire was speaking. Eventually those soft sounds began to coalesce, to come together to make words.

“…ok but, seriously, you’re starting to scare me here, dude. How about a sign, huh? Just something to let me know you know I’m here. Because I’m starting to worry that I should have called an ambulance for you when I got here. Any time now… Earth to Enjolras…? Hello?”

Enjolras shifted, pushed himself half onto his side so he could look up at Grantaire. Grantaire’s hand had kept up its little circles as he moved, and was now on his hip, instead of his back. Enjolras shivered at the sensation, just a small tremor, just enough to alert Grantaire that something had changed. Grantaire withdrew his hand, then, and offered Enjolras a relieved smile. “Well, hello, there. You with me now?”

Enjolras nodded, then shifted again to push himself upright. As Enjolras moved, Grantaire got up from the couch and sat on the coffee table. By the time Enjolras got himself into a sitting position, words were coming more easily, but his voice, when it emerged, was rough, like he’d smoked a few too many cigarettes. “You came.”

Another soft smile. “What are friends for?”

“Is that what we are?”

Grantaire’s smile fell.

Before Grantaire could say anything, Enjolras continued. “You shouldn’t want to be friends with me. All I ever seem to do with my friends is hurt them. Courfeyrac… Combeferre… and you can put a smile on it all you want, but I know I’ve hurt you, too. Why would you even want to be friends with someone like that?”

Enjolras was honest enough with himself to know that, in spite of his words to the contrary, he’d been hoping for Grantaire to offer a speedy rebuttal to that question, to confess his undying friendship, or to tell Enjolras that he wasn’t really as bad a friend as that. He had hoped, but judging from Grantaire’s continued silence on the matter, he was to be disappointed. Eventually Grantaire stood up from the coffee table and walked away. Enjolras dropped his head into his hands. A ringing endorsement, that was not.

Moments later, something cool and wet touched his temple and Enjolras reared back in surprise. And there was Grantaire holding out a glass of water. When Enjolras took it and took a small sip, that small, soft smile from earlier reappeared on Grantaire’s face. Finally he shrugged and said, “So, you’re a work in progress.”

Enjolras frowned. “I’m a what?”

“A work in progress.” Grantaire’s smile widened as he sat down next to Enjolras and bumped his shoulder. “So are most people. We fuck up, we learn, we do better the next time.” A soft snort. “And some of us fuck up more often and more spectacularly than others. Believe me, if anyone would get that, it’s me.” Grantaire turned, meeting Enjolras’ gaze dead on for a moment, and asked, “Did you hurt them on purpose?”

Eyes widened, then narrowed in indignation. “What? No!”

Before Enjolras could get truly worked up over the implication, however, Grantaire shrugged. “Then that’s all that matters.” As Enjolras continued to stare, Grantaire bumped his shoulder, again. “You fuck up, you learn, you do better next time. So, let me ask the million dollar question—do you even know how you fucked up?”

Enjolras busied himself with his glass of water to buy some time, not ready to admit that the answer to that question was a bit too close to “No” for his comfort. It was clear enough how he’d upset Combeferre. He’d upset Combeferre by upsetting Courfeyrac. But he still had no idea how he’d upset Courfeyrac badly enough for him to run. He’d been trying to do the _right_ thing, for fuck’s sake! Enjolras tried to answer. He did. Even as he felt his cheeks growing warmer by the minute, he tried to come up with something. But he really had no idea.

Eventually Grantaire sighed. “You haven’t got a fucking clue, do you?”

Already miserable, and now feeling worse by the minute, Enjolras shook his head.

Grantaire lifted an arm as if to wrap it around Enjolras’ shoulder, but paused and raised an eyebrow at him before completing the motion. Enjolras didn’t waste any time in taking him up on the offer, settling in against Grantaire’s side as Grantaire wrapped his arm around him. It was Courfeyrac to whom Enjolras usually went for this kind of physical affection, but really… Courfeyrac had been sparing with his hugs for a while. Now that Enjolras was thinking about it, properly, it had been going on for months. After several minutes of Grantaire doing nothing more than lightly holding him, Enjolras finally found his voice, again. “Well?”

Grantaire merely raised an eyebrow.

“Are you going to tell me? How I fucked up?” At Grantaire’s continued silence, Enjolras frowned. “So I can avoid doing it, again?”

Grantaire’s chest rose and fell under Enjolras’ cheek, a heavy sigh on the accompanying breath. “It’s not that simple.” Another sigh. “Enjolras, you can’t always rely on other people to warn you when you’re going to screw up or to help you pick up the pieces when you invariably do. You have to start figuring this all out on your own eventually.” He fell silent again, a small frown gracing his lips, before shaking his head. “OK. This one last time. And only because I know that Courfeyrac isn’t stable enough for you to use him as a test case. You can fuck up on me all you want, but I’m done letting you fuck up with him.”

“He—“ Enjolras’ voice deserted him, momentarily as his breath caught. That was implying something significantly worse than just a momentary upset. Was what was wrong with Courfeyrac really that bad? What had he missed? Enjolras cleared his throat, then cleared it again before his voice would cooperate. Still, it sounded small and lost, even to his own ears. “He’s OK, isn’t he?”

Grantaire’s arm tightened around his shoulders, even as another deep sigh moved the chest under Enjolras’ ear. “No, Enjolras. He’s really not. But that’s not my story to tell and I won’t break that confidence, so please don’t ask me.”

“OK… I won’t.” Enjolras took a deep breath, then pushed up and away from Grantaire’s warm embrace. He was starting to feel, more and more, like he didn’t deserve it. “Will you at least tell me what I did wrong? So I can avoid doing it, again? I—“ Deep breath. “The last thing I want to do is hurt him, again, even by accident. Please?”

Grantaire watched him for a moment, then, searching his face for who-knew-what, before slowly nodding. “OK. But, I’m not just going to give you the answer. I’m going to walk you through everything I saw, and see if you can figure it out. Because you need to be able to see these things on your own. You need to be able to recognize the warning signs that things are going south, not just the disaster that happens at the end when you miss the signs.”

Enjolras thought about that for a minute, then stood and turned to go into the kitchen. Grantaire rose off the couch behind him, an eyebrow once again raised. Enjolras answered the unspoken question, anyway. “I’m going to get paper and a pen. I have a feeling I’m going to need to take notes.”

When all was said and done, Enjolras had filled four pages and half of a fifth. He was exhausted, wrung out, and more convinced of his own worthlessness than he’d ever been, but when he asked Grantaire to stay the night… he did.

And that wasn’t nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely unbeta'ed, but I felt like if I didn't release this into the wild now, it just wasn't going to happen. Hopefully there weren't any glaring mistakes.
> 
> Feel free to come find me on tumblr @ [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com)!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/141719577072/follow-you-follow-me-103393-words-chapter-19).


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